


Unbranded Air

by suitesamba



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Adventure, Angst, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1804084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, widower, tried to leave medicine behind when he left England and came to America. Sherlock Holmes, trying to avoid the marriage his family insisted on, was sent to America after embarrassing his mother and damaging his family's social reputation. Hired to help solve a cattle rustling ring with his unbelievable deductive skills and knowledge of soils, Sherlock is injured and taken to John's ranch. He holes up there while his broken leg heals and pulls John into the investigation, and the two find common ground in more ways than either expected. An AU set in the Wyoming Territory in the 1890s, with John as an army doctor/Afghanistan veteran who wants to start over and Sherlock as a detective without a mobile phone and only John to ease his boredom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Barbed Wire is No One's Friend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abrae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrae/gifts).



> I was handed a plot bunny - no, a veritable plot - by abrae. It intrigued me - I have a love for the American West and Southwest, and have written two AUs in the Harry Potter universe featuring these locales. My experience in the HP fandom has shown me that a lot of readers stay away from American AUs, but I hope you'll give this one a try. 
> 
> The title is from a cowboy poem abrae found - [Bachin'](http://www.cowboypoetry.com/badger.htm#Bach). (excerpt in end notes)
> 
> This WIP will be updated as frequently as possible - probably weekly. I've yet to abandon a WIP so I think you're safe starting this one.
> 
> Despite my near-constant use of Google, historical facts are not guaranteed to be accurate. Doing my best...

As Dr. John Watson prepared to stitch up Sherlock Holmes’ leg while Mike and one of the hired hands held lanterns above them and two more stood ready to hold Holmes down, he thought– fleetingly – about his resolution to leave doctoring behind when he’d left England and settled in America. That’s what a new start was about, wasn’t it? Leaving your past behind, casting out in new directions.

He and Mary had planned to come here together, to the land of opportunity. To claim a piece of land and work it, make it theirs, sink new roots deep into the soil of the American West.

They’d missed the American land rushes – John by four years and Mary by forever. She’d taken ill soon after they’d decided to leave England. Of course it had been Mary - bold, bright, brave, impetuous Mary - who’d convinced him to give up their safe little life in England and sail across the ocean. It would be fun, exciting, thrilling. Dangerous, yes, but what was a bit of danger when so much promise lay beyond it?

God he missed her. Missed her fiercely. Missed her with every new sunrise in this wild new land, with every sunset he watched from the wide porch in the cool, still evenings.

Holmes was lying still, for now anyway, gritting his teeth and pushing off Jimmy and George. Sewing up his leg would be a lot easier, John knew, if Holmes would just faint from the pain, but he seemed to be handling it better than most. He’d been a difficult patient from the moment Mike had pounded on John’s door long after dark and two of his boys had carried him in. He’d protested loudly when John, still shaking off sleep, cut off his expensive but mangled trousers – as if losing his torn and bloody trousers caused him more pain than the deep gashes in his thigh. He insisted John wash his hands twice before he touched him, and refused to let them put him on the kitchen table until it was scoured with lye soap and water.

John wasn’t offended by the man’s demands. They’d have been perfectly acceptable, in fact, had they not been issued in such a disdainful voice. And while some of his attitude could be attributed to pain, John had an idea this man would be trouble even if he hadn’t been tossed off his horse onto a barbed wire fence.

Barbed wire was no one’s friend – John hated the stuff, no matter that its invention had revolutionized the cattle business – but Holmes should have known not to ride in unfamiliar territory at night.

The kitchen table – now scrubbed to a dull shine – made an adequate operating theater. Mary wouldn’t have batted an eye about it. She’d have been right in the middle of things, helping to hold the patient down, not shying away from the blood. He saw her here as a shadow, passing through the walls, bleeding through the floors, slipping through his fingers like dust, like sand.

John bit his lip hard at the memory of his dead wife, still sharp after more than a year. 

It had taken her three years to die.

Her death was hastened, in the end, by the pregnancy they hadn’t planned. The baby had come two months early and had lived only an hour. Mary had cradled her, softly singing, as she slipped away from them, and had followed her to the grave barely two months later.

He’d left them both behind in the parish churchyard, his grief spent, tired of England, ready to move on. 

_Needing_ to move on. Mary had saved him - from himself, from the frightening thought that he’d never find happiness, never earn the love of a woman, never be anchored to anyone.

And when Mary had left the world, she did so silently, with no deathbed directive for John to marry again, or to go on to America alone.

But in the end, he hadn’t needed a directive. Why not go to America as Mary had wanted? In her memory. In her honour.

To forget. To start over.

He’d let fate determine where in this vast new country he’d settle, and let the land itself determine what he’d be doing. One friend pointed him to another who knew a man whose sister had lost her husband in the Wyoming Territory and wanted to come home. He’d arranged the deal with only a second hand description of the land, a short debriefing on Wyoming cattle country, and the conviction that things would be different there. That his life would take a sharp turn away from the grief, the sorrow, the dead-end hopelessness of this last lonely year.

He couldn’t risk - wouldn’t risk - returning to the kind of life he’d lived before Mary had saved him. He’d been unanchored. Reckless. Soulless. 

_Hopeless._

And while he’d meant to leave his medical career behind him, doctors were scarce in the Wyoming Territory, and even before he was settled, while he was still learning the lay of this strange world in which he’d surfaced, word had gone around that a widower doctor had bought the Carter ranch.

He’d had his share of unsolicited patients after that, and even more unsolicited proposals.

No, Sherlock Holmes wasn’t his first patient in America, but he was already promising to be the most intriguing one he’d ever had – on this side of the Atlantic and the other. Certainly, not a single patient before Holmes had ever directed John to wash his hands and scrub the operating table.

He’d been surprised to find that Sherlock Holmes was his countryman. His accent told him more than it told Mike– Holmes was refined, moneyed. London,no doubt, apparent even through the cursing. A quick assessment told John the man was neither a cattleman nor a farmer. He didn’t use his hands for a living at all, he’d wager. He was clean-shaven, with a mop of dark curls, and strange, penetrating eyes that darted about the kitchen and the ranch house and ultimately settled on John as he quickly gathered supplies and washed his hands – again.

He’d have washed them even if Holmes hadn’t insisted.

Besides the deep gashes in his thigh, Holmes had torn his ankle up, too – broken it, John found, when he finally had two hands free to examine it, and Mike had helped him work off the expensive boots through Holmes’ throttled grunts of pain.

“You’re going to have to leave him here for a few days – he can’t travel by horse and shouldn’t by wagon,” John told Mike after he’d manipulated the bone back into place and stabilized it while the two cowhands restrained Holmes, despite his aggressive assurances he could lie still on his own. The doctor had developed quite a reputation for setting bones in his time in Afghanistan, and felt confident the bones would knit and the leg would recover fully. They moved him to the spare bed in the little sick room off the kitchen, and he lay there now, broken foot elevated on a stack of pillows, flesh pale and clammy, leg bandaged from groin to knee.

“I can’t stay here,” Holmes protested, pushing himself up on his elbows as John placed a rolled towel soaked in cold well water over the injured ankle. He wouldn’t be able to cast the leg until the swelling subsided. “I’ve a room in town. All my things are there.”

He was whinging. Petulant. Clearly in pain but resolutely ignoring it. Mike had fetched John’s whiskey as soon as they’d brought him in, and had given him a liberal amount. Holmes had downed it, and perhaps it had been enough to take the edge off the pain. But it wouldn’t last. Laudanum would do, and some ice to keep the swelling down. Mike had some at his place, and promised to send some in the morning – John hadn’t had ice here since the weather began to warm up a month ago.

“Town is a three-hour ride away by horse,” John said, exhausted in general and definitely tired of the theatrics. “You’ve broken your ankle and won’t be in a saddle for two months. The best they can do is send a wagon for you in a fortnight. You’ll need to let the bone heal for at least that long before bouncing around in the back of a wagon for half a day.”

Holmes stared at him, in a battle of wills, but John stood there, unrelenting, hands folded in front of his chest. He looked much more calm than he felt. Holmes gave him a final glare, then flung an arm over his face. He breathed in deeply, blew out a few breaths through his mouth. He didn’t seem a great deal less tense when he spoke at last.

“Dr. Watson – I don’t mean to be difficult….”

“I’m sorry,” interrupted John, allowing a small smile to slip out. “But you do – mean to be difficult, that is. You could try being grateful instead. Grateful you have a friend like Mike here to look out for you….”

Said friend had dropped into the chair at the end of the bed. “I’ll get your things and bring them out here in a day or two, Sherlock, and talk Mrs. Turner into giving you a credit on that room.”

“It’s not the money,” snapped Holmes. He blew out another breath, staring at the ceiling. “I really couldn’t impose.”

John rolled his eyes. He exchanged a glance with Mike. Mike Stamford owned the largest cattle operation of all the small ranchers in their part of the Territory. Not large enough to be considered one of the big boys, but with enough head to be the natural leader of the small ranchers. Mike had been a godsend to him when he arrived here eight months ago, helping him settle in, introducing him around, assessing him, John knew, teaching him the ropes. They’d hit it off well, and John knew that Mike approved of him. He was tenacious, a hard worker, capable and strong in his compact frame. He didn’t mind getting his hands dirty and was willing to try them at almost anything that needed doing. His medical credentials, no matter that he’d never intended to use them, elevated his standing even more. Mike had his own team go over John’s books, reorganize things at the ranch, and assured him a profitable cattle business.

And all it cost John was a bit of free doctoring.

“I’ll go mad of boredom here,” Holmes said now, glaring at Mike.

“Sherlock’s a private detective,” Mike said, handily ignoring Sherlock’s comment with the ease borne of working closely with the man. “I’ve hired him to help catch our rustlers.”

John looked from Mike to Holmes. Mike, in particular, had been hit hard by the thieves. This, at least, might explain why they were out after dark in unfamiliar territory making friends with barbed wire fences. “If you catch those rustlers, Mr. Holmes, my services will be free to you, any time.”

“If?” Holmes looked both frustrated and put out. “I’ll have this case solved as soon as I analyze the soil samples we collected. And while I appreciate the offer, I don’t plan to injure myself again.”

John rolled his eyes.

“He’s an expert on soils,” explained Mike. “Can look at a piece of dirt – smell it, taste it, take a gander at it under that microscope of his and know exactly where it came from.”

John stared at Sherlock with interest, and Sherlock stared right back at him. He shifted, grimaced.

“You are a doctor,” he stated. “A good doctor. Afghanistan, first. Invalided out. Desk job, then a rural practice. Cornwall. You’re here for a new start. Tragedy back home of some sort.”

Mike grinned as John’s mouth fell open. He glared at Mike and his friend threw up his hands.

“I didn’t tell him anything, John. Not a thing. He’s just like that. He’s good, isn’t he?”

John glanced at his patient. Those odd eyes were on him again. Holmes quirked an eyebrow, challenging him.

“Spot on,” he said, tersely. “Anything else you’d like to add?”

“You meant to leave it behind – your medical profession. Bad move, really, Dr. Watson. There are far too many cattlemen in the Wyoming Territory and far too few doctors.”

“Far too many patients, I’d counter,” said John.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Or too much barbed wire.”

John’s mouth twitched. “I think we can agree on that, at least.” 

Mike stood. “I’ve got a bit of a ride ahead of me.” He held out his hand and shook John’s. “Sorry to impose again, John. I’ll make it up to you.”

“There’s nothing to make up,” John said, clasping Mike’s shoulder with his left hand as they shook. “I can’t begin to repay you for all you’ve done for me since I moved in.”

Mike clapped his shoulder and shook his head.

“I’m leaving you in good hands, Sherlock,” he said. “And I’m sorry about all this – Jimmy’ll take Penny back to my place in the morning– I’ll be sure she’s well cared for until you’re back on your feet.”

John saw Mike out, then gathered up a few necessities and returned to Sherlock’s room.

“Chamber pot,” he said. He pulled the chair Mike had been sitting on over to the bed and slid the pot next to the bed. Holmes watched him silently. “First thing I did when I got this place was move the outhouse further from the house,” he said, making conversation while he pressed his fingers to Holmes’ wrist then held the back of his hand against his forehead.

“The flies are ghastly here,” Holmes stated.

John smiled. “I’d rather keep more of them out of the house and walk a bit further to the outhouse.” He nodded at the chamber pot. “Of course, that puts it even further out of your reach. We’ll have to make do with this for now. No weight on that foot – I think I’ve got it set right and don’t fancy putting you back together again because you were too modest to ask for help or too impatient to wait for it.”

“Aren’t you going to ask how I know all those things about you?” asked Sherlock.

“Actually, I was thinking you might like something stronger for the pain. Laud….”

Holmes cut him off. “No – thank you.” He winced and shifted his arse on the bed, careful of the injured leg.

John frowned. “Mike’s promised to send one of his boys over with ice in the morning – that will help a bit. Are you certain…?”

“Yes. No laudanum.”

“Fine. More whiskey, then. It will help you sleep.”

He fetched it – not waiting for Holmes to agree. He poured a measure for himself as well, then returned to the room and sat in the chair beside the bed. He passed a glass over.

“So – how did you know? About Afghanistan, say?"

“Your triage process when they brought me in. Military. Extremely capable, no-nonsense. I estimated your age, extrapolated backward to Afghanistan.”

John sipped his whiskey, considering. “And the tragedy back home?”

He watched Holmes take a swallow of whiskey. The man was close to his own age, he’d wager. In this thirties, tall and lean, with that mop of curly dark hair. Pale skin – perhaps riding by night wasn’t so new to him after all. He had the air of someone with a great deal of energy to expend, a quick wit, sharp intellect. Frankly, he intrigued John Watson.

And now, Holmes gave a tight smile. “You’ve brought your wife’s possessions with you, Dr. Watson, but not your wife. She died – not too long before you ventured across the ocean. And you couldn’t save her. Am I right?”

He was holding the half-full glass of whiskey close to his face, staring at John with those odd blue-grey eyes.

“Tuberculosis.”

Sherlock frowned. “And you’re not infected?”

John shook his head and stared into his glass.

“Dr. Watson – what could you possibly have done for your wife?”

John raised his eyes. Holmes was staring at him, clearly puzzled.

John dropped his eyes again. “Taken more care not to conceive a child with her,” he replied after a significant pause. He swirled the liquid in the glass, then looked up. “Terminated the pregnancy, at the very least. As it was, she gave birth prematurely. Our daughter lived an hour and my wife declined quickly and was dead within weeks.”

Neither spoke, each nursing their whiskey. The silence was heavy, but not necessarily uncomfortable. John didn’t know why he’d finally voiced his guilt to this virtual stranger.

“Aborting the child would not have saved your wife,” Holmes said. “You suggested it – insisted on it. She refused. The last months of her life were filled with her joy and hope and your worry and fear. You blame yourself for the pregnancy but you blame your wife for refusing to terminate it – for putting her hopes for a child ahead of her own health and welfare. And you persist in this even though she is dead and you have traveled across the world to start over.”

John opened his mouth, quick retort – denial – on his tongue. But no words came as he stared at this stranger in his home.

No one – ever – had dared to throw his grief back at him.

“You meant to give up practicing medicine. Mike said as much when they brought me here – that you’re a doctor recently arrived from England, and that you don’t mean to continue practicing here.”

“I bought a cattle ranch,” John stated. “Not a surgery.”

“Hm.” Holmes said. He was studying John now, looking him up and down. “I don’t think cattle ranching is quite exciting enough for you.”

“Not exciting enough? What are you on about?”

Holmes closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, then let out the breath through his mouth. It was a pain management technique. This obviously wasn’t the man’s first serious injury.

“You crave adventure, Dr. Watson. Excitement. You meant to come here with your wife, I’d wager. Both of you. Perhaps she wanted it as much as you did. But you’re here alone now, and Mike’s got you set up with a good team to take care of the ranch.” He smiled at John. His face was inviting when he smiled. He looked pleased with himself. “Dr. Watson – I’m elbows deep in an investigation and won’t be on my feet for some time. Since you’re stuck with me for several weeks, you’re the perfect candidate to help further my case. A master detective needs a sidekick, and who better than one of my own countrymen?”

“You’re mad.” John appreciated the man’s enthusiasm. This cattle rustling had affected him personally, and he trusted Mike enough to know he’d never bring someone incompetent on. But the idea that he’d play sidekick while Holmes was laid up? Ludicrous. He had work to do – real work. The ranch didn’t run itself, no matter how small, and how much help he had to run it. He stood, still shaking his head. “If you need anything – something to drink, something for the pain, help using the chamber pot – just bang on the wall, Mr. Holmes. My bed’s opposite yours – I’ll hear you.”

“Sherlock.”

John nodded. “Alright then. Sherlock it is. And please call me John.”

Sherlock nodded. He was looking at John appraisingly, and John knew he wasn’t ready to give up on this sidekick business just yet. Fortunately- for John, anyway – the events of the evening were catching up with him. He looked exhausted, and in a good bit of pain. “I should warn you, John – I get bored easily. I require quite a bit of stimulation to keep my mind active.”

John shook his head in not-quite-mock exasperation. “Wake me if you need anything,” he repeated as he left. He stoked the fire in the main room before he headed to bed. The ranch house was small and tightly constructed, but it was early spring and the nights were still cold. In his own room, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots, then stood and stripped to his long johns. He took the time to brush his teeth with the salt and soda mixture he favoured, then extinguished the oil lamp on the table that served as his vanity.

It was past midnight, and he was normally asleep by nine.

Pounding woke him from a fitful sleep sometime later. He jerked awake from an unpleasant dream – another of the near-nightmares he’d suffered since the war. It took a full minute before he remembered his patient in the other room, and he made his way in the dark through the cold kitchen and into the sick room.

“Pain?” he asked as he fumbled to light the squat candles on the shelf near the door.

“Quite,” came the quiet answer. “But I don’t need anything. I was just trying to wake you.”

John walked slowly over to the bed. Sherlock was still lying on his back, leg elevated on a stack of pillows, quilt tucked in around the rest of his body.

“Have you been able to sleep at all?” he asked.

“Some. Fits and starts,” answered Sherlock. “I didn’t expect to have a pleasant night.”

John lifted the damp towel off his leg and studied it as best he could in the candlelight. The swelling was worse – much worse – but that was absolutely expected.

“Mike promised ice in the morning,” he said, his voice unnaturally low in keeping with the candlelit atmosphere. “Are you sure you won’t have something for the pain? I don’t think anything less than laudanum will do much for you, though.”

“As I said – no. I’ve a bit of a bad history with opiates, if you must know.”

“Ah.” John nodded. Addiction to laudanum was not uncommon. “Well, since I’m here anyway…?” He glanced down at the chamber pot and Sherlock sighed.

“Fine. Perhaps you’ll sleep better now that you’ve checked on me.”

John assisted Sherlock, then slid the pot under the bed, and stood beside it, considering what Sherlock had just said.

“You woke me intentionally even though you didn’t need me. I was keeping you awake, then?”

“Thrashing, muttering. Your wife – her name was Hope?”

John’s face fell before he could even think to dissimilate. He shook his head and turned away.

“My wife was Mary,” he said. He stopped by the door and snuffed out one of the candles, then turned back toward Sherlock. “Hope was someone else – someone I knew long before I met Mary.”

He wet his fingers and snuffed out the second candle.

“Try to sleep. I’m sorry for waking you – I shouldn’t have had the whiskey before bed – it makes the nightmares worse.”

He nodded at Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock nodded as well. But John felt Holmes’ eyes on him as he left the room and knew he was busy putting the pieces of John’s life back together in that overactive brain of his.

 _Hope._ Damn it. He thought he was over it – over the war. Benjamin Hope – a lieutenant in his division. A charismatic young man that had bled out beneath his fingers.

Benjamin – dead at twenty-one on the sands of the Afghan desert.

John sat on the edge of his bed, realizing only then that he’d not put on his dressing gown when he’d rolled out of bed and gone in to check on Sherlock. He thought he must have looked ridiculous with his gray long johns and nothing else, but it was certainly too late to worry about what kind of image he’d presented. He crawled back under the covers and bunched the pillow under his head.

He had shouted out Benjamin Hope’s name in a nightmare. _Hope._ Ben, who’d taken the young doctor under his wing, who’d taught him the ropes, who’d offered what measure of comfort he could, more than John Watson could possibly – ever – accept.


	2. Tea for Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns what brought Sherlock to America - or better yet, what forced him from England, and Sherlock expresses his opinion about facial hair.

**Chapter 2**

Despite having slept poorly, and not nearly long enough, John was up by five thirty. He checked on Sherlock first, and found him sleeping fitfully and no more feverish than the night before, so he let him be and went out to start morning chores. He trudged back to the house an hour later, washed up, and soaked a clean towel in the cold well water he’d brought in.

“Morning, Mr. Watson.”

John smiled as Mrs. Hudson pulled her apron off the hook on the back of the door and deftly tied it.

“Morning, Mrs. H.” John wrung the towel out lightly. He smiled at his housekeeper, the first person he’d hired when he’d purchased the ranch. “We’ve got a guest – a friend of Mike Stamford was thrown from his horse last night and they brought him here. I sewed up a gash in his leg and set his ankle – he’ll need to mend here for a couple of weeks before he can manage a wagon ride back to town.”

“I’ll double up on the breakfast, then,” she said. She glanced at the basket of eggs he’d placed on the table and started to make the coffee.

“Tea, I think,” John said, patting her on the shoulder as he pulled down the bin from one of the cabinets. “He’s English.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled. “So it’s that Sherlock Holmes, then? I’ve seen them about together. He’s helping Mike catch the rustlers, isn’t he?”

“He was,” John said. He sighed. “And if he thinks I’m going to do his running for him while he’s laid up, he’s wrong. I’ve got a ranch to run.”

Mrs. Hudson sliced some bread and laid it on the toaster. “This ranch practically runs itself the way Mike’s got you set up, Mr. Watson. It might be fun to do something different – and with an Englishman, no less.” She cracked an egg, then turned to John. “How do you take your eggs at breakfast over there, anyway? I never even asked.”

“Soft-boiled,” replied John. “But you’re fine – fry them up as you always do. We’re not in England, Mrs. Hudson. Surely Mr. Holmes realizes that.”  
He left her to the cooking and carried the dripping towel into the sick room. Sherlock was awake now, head turned toward the doorway.

“Rough night,” John said. “You look like you could use another night’s sleep. How’s the pain?”

“Tolerable – just,” answered Sherlock.

John helped him with the necessaries, then checked the broken ankle.

“Mike’s boys need to hurry with that ice,” he said. He loosened the wrapping a notch as the swelling had increased even more overnight, then draped the cold towel over the splinted joint and turned his attention to the stitched wound. “I don’t want to unwrap this if I can help it – is it throbbing?”

Sherlock grimaced. “I don’t think so – the ankle rather overpowers it.”

John nodded sympathetically. “Mrs. Hudson’s got breakfast going - anything you don’t like?”

“Breakfast,” responded Sherlock dryly.

John raised an eyebrow and shook his head. He took Sherlock’s wrist again, measured his pulse rate, then laid a practiced hand on his forehead.

“You’re underweight already,” he said, trying not to lecture. “You should eat something. After breakfast, I’ll prep some quinine sulfate. It will bring the fever down.”

Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door with a breakfast plate for Sherlock and handed it to John. “Would you like me to bring in your plate as well, Mr. Watson?”

John glanced back at Sherlock, then handed the plate back to Mrs. H. “Why don’t you get Mr. Holmes started and I’ll make the tea?” He turned to Sherlock. “Mrs. Hudson, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson takes care of things here and makes lunch for the boys. Treat her kindly – she’s not been at this job too long and already I’ve had two ranchers try to steal her from me.”

Sherlock was eying Mrs. Hudson with something between interest and suspicion when John slipped out of the room. He’d need to take care with his time – he’d have to check on Sherlock several times a day and still manage to get all his work done. He was already concerned about the amount of swelling around the ankle – it should have been iced earlier, but there was nothing for it. 

He made the tea and steeped it strong, added a touch of milk to one cup, and carried them both back to the room. Sherlock was sitting up with pillows plumped behind his back and Mrs. Hudson was standing near the foot of the bed, mouth agape, staring at him.

“How do you _know_ those things?” she asked. She whirled around to face John. “Mr. Watson– why would you tell him about Carl?”

“No – Mrs. Hudson – please….” John hurried over and took her hands in his. “I didn’t tell him a thing – he guessed is all. Did the same thing to me last night.”

She looked at him, clearly upset still, but nodded and blew out a breath.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Watson. Of course you didn’t say anything.” She chanced a glance at Sherlock, who was obviously not at all concerned that he had upset John’s housekeeper.

“Look at her!” he said, sweeping an arm to the side at the room in general and Mrs. Hudson in particular. “Store-bought dress, hands only just getting accustomed to this kind of work. East Coast accent. No wedding ring. It’s as plain as the nose on my face, John. She’s lost her husband, her money and fallen in social status in the….”  


“Mrs. Hudson was widowed less than a year ago, Mr. Holmes,” John said, glaring at his guest and cutting him off mid-stream. “She was gracious enough to come to work for me when I needed someone to look after things here. She’s indispensable to this household and I will _not_ tolerate your rudeness.”

“But – ”

“I think you should apologize to Mrs. Hudson.”

“I’m not a child – and I certainly meant no harm.” Sherlock looked like he was teetering on the edge of a sulk. John glared. Sherlock looked at the wall behind the bed.

“Mrs. Hudson – my apologies. It was … unkind …of me to point out that your husband was likely involved in unsavory and most certainly illegal activities. However, I was simply – ”

“Thank you – apology accepted,” stated Mrs. Hudson crossly. She turned so her back was to Sherlock and gave John the look – the look that meant she wasn’t about to cede the upper hand to this man.

John approached Sherlock’s bed and scooted the chair closer with his foot.

“Milk?” he asked.

“A touch,” answered Sherlock. He looked suspicious when John pressed a cup into his hand, but immediately put the cup to his lips and sipped. John watched his eyes close in pleasure, then looked at his still-untouched breakfast plate.

“You should eat something too – I know you won’t be too hungry, but perhaps some toast and eggs?”

Mrs. Hudson came in with a second plate for John, and he took it from her with a polite “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” She smiled at him, looked side-long at Sherlock with a frown, and left the room.

“You’re observant,” John said as Sherlock ignored the food on his place and drank his tea. “But more than just observant.”

Sherlock shrugged. “The tea is good. The best I’ve had in some time.” He blew on the surface of the cup and looked at John again. “Thank you.”

John laughed. “You reduce Mrs. Hudson nearly to tears then thank me for a good cup of tea.”

Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his eye. “It’s a _very_ good cup of tea.”

“So – how did you … ?” He waved his hand back toward the kitchen.

“Oh – that?” Sherlock lifted one shoulder casually. “I’ve already explained, haven’t I? Connecticut accent, well-tailored, store-bought clothing. No ring but she tried twisting it anyway – as if she were long accustomed to doing so. Working here – clearly lowering of social class. So – husband gone and she’s taken off the ring. She’s ashamed.”

John realized he was gaping, but Sherlock seemed quite matter-of-fact.

“I like her,” said Sherlock. “She’s spunky.” He held out his cup to John. “And I’d like more tea.”

John stood and gestured to the plate. “Eat something,” he said.

Sherlock frowned at the plate, sighed and picked up a triangle of toast.

ooOoo

Mike’s boys brought the ice at mid-morning, and while John arranged an ice pack on Sherlock’s ankle, Sherlock gave them instructions to carry back to their boss.

“My microscope, the contents of the desk, my shaving supplies, an attaché case wedged between the headboard of the bed and the wall, nightshirts, two pair of my oldest trousers – bottom drawer of the chest of drawers beside the door, the contents of my saddle bag – it was on my horse last night so someone will have to go after it if it wasn’t on her when they put her up last night…”

“Might be easier to tell us what you _don’t_ want,” suggested Howard. His companion let out a loud guffaw, which he attempted to strangle midway through. They left with promises to return the next day – Mike was going to town himself later that day to pick up Sherlock’s belongings from the hotel.

“Cold.” Sherlock watched them go, then poked at the ice pack with the toe of his good foot.

“Good,” said John. “Leave it. I’m going to apply a Plaster of Paris cast when the swelling settles down a bit more. We’ll be able to move you off the bed once the cast dries.

“I’ll have bed sores by then,” quipped Sherlock. He clenched his teeth as he slid his hips forward on the bed.

John picked up a rag from the bedside table and wiped Sherlock’s forehead, pushing dark curls aside. “You’re soaked through with perspiration,” he said. “And I should change those sheets before you sleep again – they’re soaked too. I’ll bring you a fresh nightshirt.” He studied Sherlock a moment. “It will be shorter than you’ll like, especially given that we cut off your trousers, but it will do until Mike brings your own clothing.”

Fifteen minutes later, John had managed to change the bed sheets with his patient still in the bed – a skill he’d picked up in the military. It was far easier to do with two people – one to roll the patient and the second to adjust the sheets – but Sherlock, even with limited movement, was able to maneuver around enough to make the job a bit easier. Sherlock pulled his sweaty shirt off and John took it from him then froze, one of his own nightshirts in his hands.

“Gunshot?” He stared at Sherlock’s chest, at the scar marring the smooth skin below his clavicle.

Sherlock took the shirt from John and pulled it over his head.

“We all have our scars, John.” He straightened the collar and held up an arm to adjust the too-short sleeve at his wrist. He looked at John, then, staring at his shoulder significantly.

“How did you…? Oh.” Sherlock had woken him last night, from his nightmares, and he’d come into the room in only his long johns. He rotated his shoulder absently.

“Afghanistan,” Sherlock stated. “A noble injury.”

“There nothing noble about being shot and lying bleeding in the sand,” John replied. In his mind, he saw Hope. Hope, shot in the gut. Nothing he could do but press his joined hands against the fatal wound and watch the man’s life bleed away.

Sherlock didn’t argue the point. But he stared at John a long while, regarding him with studied interest. Then he closed his eyes and turned his head away from John without further comment.

ooOoo

There was enough ice to last all that day and well into the next. Sherlock had a second fitful night with little sleep, but by the next day, the pain seemed to have ebbed somewhat and he catnapped throughout the long afternoon. John waited until early evening of that second day to change the dressing on his leg. Sherlock watched as John cut away the wrapping, and studied the stitched gashes with interest.

“You’ll have scarring,” John said. “I did what I could, but the barbed wire did quite a bit of damage.”

“It’s healing,” Sherlock stated.

“That’s good,” said John, wondering if Sherlock was surprised that the wound wasn’t festering and amputation imminent. “I’d like to leave the stitches in at least a week, though.”

He’d wrapped the leg back up, carefully working the bandages under the thigh so as not to disturb the broken ankle, and put the last of the ice on the break. That morning, Sherlock had convinced Mrs. Hudson to bring him something to read. He’d rolled his eyes when she brought him the Bible, so she’d returned with a collection of medical texts, straight off the shelf in John’s bedroom, and had stacked several books on top of those that had been left at the house by the previous owners. Sherlock was reading one of those now – a guide to cattle ranching.

Mike came around several hours later, and they set up a makeshift table to hold the detritus of Sherlock’s investigation. John admired the microscope – Sherlock certainly took great care with it and treated it like the treasure it was. A dozen or more small canvas bags were piled up on one end of the table along with a large magnifying glass, a stack of papers, a half dozen books, an assortment of glass vessels, a collection of fine writing instruments, and, most interesting of all, a beautiful map on crisp parchment.

“You made this,” John stated. He was standing behind the table, studying the map with its intricate line work and notes in a fluid, educated hand.

“I like maps,” Sherlock answered. He was looking rather miserable, despite the addition of his possessions to the room. He reminded John of a caged animal –depressed and anxious.

“It’s beautiful.” John continued studying the map. He recognized it as a detail of the area where the cattle rustlers had hit the hardest. His own ranch was included, with the creek that defined its western boundary and the worn path angling up from the Stamford ranch below.

John knew Sherlock was watching him when Sherlock spoke again a few moments later.  


“I’ve maps of Britain as well.”

“Have you?” John looked up and gave Sherlock an interested look. “Did you make those, too?”

“Some of them.” He shrugged. “They’d bore you, I expect. Mostly soils and such, though I’ve a good one of London showing crime scenes.”

John’s eyes opened wider.

“Murders, actually,” continued Sherlock.

“I’d like to see that, then,” John said. He rolled up the map he’d been studying. “Did you bring it?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I keep a small house in San Francisco.”

“Oh.” John studied Sherlock with renewed interest. “So, how long have you been riding, then?”

Sherlock gave him half a smile. “You are wondering if my accident was due to lack of experience on a horse?” He cocked an eyebrow at John. “I’ve been riding since I was a child. Though I must admit this terrain is certainly more challenging than Sussex.”

John had forgotten –he’d already pegged Sherlock as upper class.

“Right. Of course. So – this case for Mike. That’s why you came out here?”

“No – I was passing through when I met Stamford.”

“So you’re unattached,” John said. His hand strayed to a leather case Mike had just placed on the table. “Fiddle?”

“Violin,” corrected Sherlock. “And thank you, Mike.”

Mike grinned. “I thought it might help you expend some of that energy of yours while you’re holed up here.”

“My ranch house is hardly a hole, Mike,” John said. He wasn’t really affronted and Mike knew it.

“Not so much,” Mike responded. “Though it could use a woman’s touch,” he suggested, giving John a significant look.

“Your daughter is far too young for a man like me, Mike,” John said with a kind smile. “She needs a bit of adventure and excitement.”

“She needs an education,” put in Sherlock under his breath. Mike let out a hearty laugh and shook his head, glancing at John and rolling his eyes. But John was looking at Sherlock curiously.

Mike took his leave soon after, and John accompanied him outside. 

“You know I’ll make this up to you, John,” Mike said as he checked the tension on the cinch then swung himself easily up into his saddle. 

“Nothing to make up, Mike, thanks,” said John. 

“You call Sherlock Holmes _nothing_?” asked Mike, laughing.

John grinned. “He can be a bit of a handful - but he’s rather fascinating, when it’s all said and done.” He paused and Mike looked down at him, waiting. “How did you meet him, Mike? He says he’s from San Francisco.”

“Found him wandering about in town. Stood out like a sore thumb with his funny hat and cape - he asked me for a match to light his pipe. Said he was between trains. He was standing in front of the bank, reading the notice about the patrols we were organizing.”

“Pipe!” John made a show of hitting his head. “That’s it! He hasn’t had a smoke since the accident - that’s why he’s so difficult!”

Mike cinched his knees into the horse’s flanks, expertly turning her with a gentle pull on the rein, then turned and reached into the saddlebag. He tossed a pouch of tobacco down to John. “I’m not promising it will change his disposition, John, but it’s worth a try.”

Mike rode off, and John looked at the pouch of tobacco, then tossed it from one hand to another as he watched Mike disappear into the distance.

He took his time before returning to Sherlock’s room. Mrs. Hudson was gone home, so he busied himself getting the stove going again, then putting a kettle on for tea. He considered the heavy mugs he usually served in. They went well with the ranch house - solid and plain. Comfortable and utilitarian. 

They didn’t remind him of England at all.

He dropped the pouch of tobacco onto the table and reached into a seldom-used cabinet.

The tea service was rather plain. White china, not terribly fine, with dark blue and gold trim. It had belonged to his mother, and Mary had used it for everyday tea. One of the cups was chipped, but John pulled out two that were perfectly fine and set them on their saucers.

He stared at the tray, at the teapot with its tapered spout, and almost shoved the entire thing back inside the cabinet. The house was quiet, as it always was in the evening when Mrs. Hudson was gone for the day and the ranch hands were off to the bunkhouse.

He’d never taken out this tea service for Mrs. Hudson, not even on the day he’d interviewed her, when they’d sat on the rockers on the porch talking for hours, when she’d poured her heart and soul out to him.

He seemed to have that effect on people.

“John? Are you there?”

The voice - Sherlock’s low voice - carried through the stillness of the house. John smiled at the sound of it, rich in its distinctive accent, an accent that seemed to make his own less foreign and strange, less out of place in this piece of America in which he’d landed.

“Just making tea.” John had walked to the open doorway, and Sherlock looked over at him.

“Light,” Sherlock said at the same time that John said, “I’m sorry - you need light in here.”

John lit the lamp on the dresser and carried it over to the bedside table. Sherlock thanked him with a brief smile as he took up the book he’d abandoned when the light grew too dim. 

“You didn’t tell me you liked maps too,” Sherlock said. 

John glanced at the book Sherlock was reading.

“Ah - bit of war buff, actually.”

“Battlefield Maps,” mused Sherlock. He carefully turned a leaf in the book. “From the American Civil War - the War Between the States. These are well done.” He smoothed a hand over the paper and continued studying the map.

“Right - I’ll get the tea, then,” John said.

“Tea will be fine,” said Sherlock, still not lifting his eyes from the book.

John shook his head, both amused and annoyed. When he came back with the tea tray, Sherlock carefully closed the book and set it aside. He noticed the china tea service immediately, and was either unable to keep the pleased look off his face, or simply didn’t try.

“You took great care to bring this with you from England,” he said as John held up the milk pitcher. He nodded, shook his head at the sugar, and accepted the cup from John. He took a drink, blowing over the surface first, then watched as John poured for himself.

“I did,” John answered. “It was….”

“Your mother’s,” finished Sherlock. “Not her company set, but the everyday. You remember it from your childhood.” He held the cup in both hands, warming them.

“My wife used it,” John said. It was important, somehow, that he not let Sherlock deduce this part. “My mother was already gone when we married, so the tea service came with me into the marriage. And Mary respected that. She knew I liked it, and she used it nearly every day.”

“Then perhaps you should use it more often,” Sherlock suggested, “instead of saving it for once-a-year occasions.”

“Even Mrs. Hudson thinks this is too fine a china for Wyoming,” John replied, choosing not to fixate on exactly how Sherlock Holmes knew he’d not used the tea service before today. He shrugged one shoulder, half apologetically. “But it felt right, somehow. With you here - it’s as if home is just a bit closer.” He caught Sherlock’s eyes then. “I like hearing your voice, to be honest.”

“You mean my accent. You’re no longer accustomed to hearing English spoken as it should be.”

John grinned. “You won’t make many friends around here with that kind of attitude,” he said. “But between you and me, yes. Exactly.”

“Fortunately, I’m not looking for offers of friendship,” Sherlock said. “Though I will accept yours if it comes with your tea.”

John smiled. “You can count on tea any time you’re here,” he said. “So - what brought you to America, then?”

Sherlock looked down at his tea and blew across the top. “I’m a bit of an embarrassment to my family,” he said at last. “They decided I should marry, chose an appropriate spouse and made all the arrangements. I wasn’t at all interested in the girl, nor marriage, nor in the government position they arranged for me.”

“So you just left? You came to this country so you didn’t have to get married?” 

“Oh good Lord no,” answered Sherlock. “I paid my doctor to tell them I was impotent.”

John had just lifted his teacup to his lips. He sputtered into it and looked up to see Sherlock grinning at him.

“Did it work?” he asked.

They both burst out laughing.

“So why America?” asked John once they’d settled back down. 

“I caused quite a bit of scandal,” Sherlock explained. He didn’t sound one bit contrite. “My poor mother was too mortified to show her face in public. “My doctor suggested that I’d had a traumatic childhood experience, perhaps witnessing my parents in the act of coitus.” He glanced at John, then, and seemed heartened that John was not red in the face. John was, in fact, struggling to look properly dignified.

“My older brother intervened, arranged for the house in San Francisco, and put me on the ship himself with a directive to not return for at least three years. Told me how disappointed he was in me - how it was up to me to carry on the family name and all.”

“What about him?” asked John. “Is he married?”

Sherlock laughed. “Mycroft? No. Not at all. But for quite different reasons than my own.”

John gave Sherlock an appraising look. He thought he understood Sherlock’s reasons, but one couldn’t easily convey that sort of sympathy.

“How much longer do you have here, then?” John asked. “Before you can go home?”

“Two years, four months,” responded Sherlock with an exaggerated sigh. “And six days.” 

“Perhaps they’ll take pity on you when they find out you’ve been injured,” John suggested.

“I don’t need their pity,” Sherlock stated. He was staring at the toes of his injured foot. “And no matter that I count the days of my banishment, I’m not quite ready to return to England.” He considered the cup in his hands. “There are acceptable substitutes here – such as this tea, for instance.”

John smiled and indicated the pot. Sherlock nodded, and John refilled his tea.

“I’ve more to see here,” Sherlock said after a lengthy but comfortable silence. “I’m seldom bored.”

“Before landing here, anyway,” John said. 

Sherlock indicated the table with his possessions. “Not so bored now. I’m sure I’ll have a task or two for you as early as tomorrow.”

“The swelling’s starting to go down finally - I’ll cast your leg in the morning,” John said. “Once the Plaster of Paris dries, we’ll be able to move you. But you’ve got to keep the leg elevated until the swelling is gone.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Sherlock said, giving John a mock salute and a smile.

He looked younger when he smiled.

Sherlock rubbed his chin and sighed. “I detest facial hair,” he said. 

John ran a hand over one side of his own mustache and laughed. “I’ve had this for years. Mary liked it.”

Sherlock leveled a gaze at him. “I think it makes you look older.”

John laughed. “How would you know? You’ve never seen me without it.” He shrugged. “Besides, looking older is sometimes a good thing.”

“I prefer my doctors clean-shaven,” Sherlock said.

John stared at him, retort on his lips. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, at a loss for words. Finally, he plunged ahead as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken.

“Well, Mike brought your shaving kit, so we’ll get you set up to get rid of that beard in the morning - if you can put up with it until then.”

“I put up with far more annoyances for far longer,” Sherlock replied. He tried wiggling his toes. “Such as my brother.”

“Maybe if you stay here longer, you’ll find the right girl to marry - someone your family won’t approve of, anyway,” John chanced.

Sherlock’s mouth curved into the barest hint of a smile. There was something there John couldn’t quite read - regret? Amusement? Irony? 

“My family would never approve of my choice of partner,” he said. He shifted, grimacing with the movement. As John watched, his shoulders tensed, then relaxed, and he leaned back against the small mountain of pillows. “And frankly, I’m married to my work.”

Later, as John cleaned up and carefully replaced the tea cups and saucers, he found himself thinking about Sherlock Holmes, and his family, and his choice of partner. He had no doubt now that his patient wouldn’t be looking to settle down with Mike’s daughter. He’d as much as told John that he wasn’t interested in women.

A brave thing to almost tell - to insinuate. Especially to a near-stranger. John himself would never have dared, not unless - not unless he’d been absolutely convinced that the person with whom he was speaking was - well - amenable wasn’t the right word, was it? Of the same inclination?

And that made him wonder, of course. About Sherlock Holmes, and what he saw _in_ John, how he saw _through_ John.

Through time, through all those years of wedded bliss with Mary, back beyond the wall he’d erected after Afghanistan, keeping his youthful indiscretions properly in their place.

Locked up. Corralled.

Gone - but not forgotten.


	3. Au Clair de Lune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson was happy with his life before Sherlock Holmes tumbled into it. But now he's dangerously close to craving more adventure than he needs, and questioning things about himself he'd long resolved. Here, Sherlock sends John on his first mission, and John returns to hear something he never thought he'd hear again.

Chapter 3

The next morning, while the plaster was set but far from dry on the new cast on Sherlock’s leg, John got out the shaving supplies.

“I’m actually very good at this,” he said as he laid out the razor on a fresh towel between the shaving mug and a basin of water he’d just poured from the heated kettle. He turned his head to look at Sherlock. He was still refusing the laudanum, and had steeled through the casting process by gritting his teeth and demanding tea - good tea - _John’s_ tea - afterward.

“I’m not wrong in assuming you’d like me to do this for you?” John asked as he stroked the blade of the razor against the strap to sharpen it. “I’m pretty useless without a mirror myself.”

“I actually prefer my barber’s clean-shaven,” Sherlock said. He looked at John’s mustache as he spoke, and John smiled. He was already working up the lather in the mug. 

“No clean-shaven barbers within a three-hour ride, I’m afraid,” he said. “I’ll have to do.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, sinking into a sigh as John began brushing on the lathered soap. “You’ll do.”

John was more than a casual barber. He’d shaved hundreds of souls in his medical career - legs and chests and groins and heads and even some backs. And while he’d had to do his share in the army field hospitals as well, helping to shave the faces of recuperating soldiers, he hadn’t shaved another man’s face since the day his father died, when his mother solemnly handed him the chipped shaving bowl that had rested on his father’s shelf for as long as his memory reached.

“Something wrong?” asked Sherlock. 

John shook his head, bringing his attention back to the present. There was nothing at all similar between his father’s slack, careworn and lifeless face and the curious, angular and very much alive face of Sherlock Holmes. He worked in some more lather then picked up the razor.

“I’m not one for small talk,” he said, “and you’d best be still while I work.”

Sherlock obliged by not speaking at all. He moved his head only as John used the pads of two fingers to tip it this way and that. Sherlock’s face was surprisingly soft, his skin well-cared for. He hadn’t been in the Wyoming Territory long - hadn’t yet developed the tough, leathery skin so many suffered from exposure to sun and wind. John shaved his neck carefully, strokes quick and even, taking care over his Adam’s apple. He rested his fingers on the carotid artery, feeling the strong heart pulse within as he scraped upward with the razor.

Sherlock hardly flinched. He was clearly accustomed to this service, and John wondered how he’d survived these months away from his usual comforts. When he was finished, Sherlock took the hot towel from his hands as he prepared to wipe off his face.

“You’re quite a bit better than my barber in San Francisco,” Sherlock said as he wiped down his face. “Though Father’s barber in London offers ear cleaning and scalp massage.”

John wiped off the razor and took the used towel from Sherlock. “Not interested in the ear cleaning business - I’ve taken enough disgusting crud out of ears to last me a lifetime. Had a three-year old boy come in once with an earful of potatoes his mum didn’t find for a week.”

“Children frighten me,” said Sherlock.

“You might change your mind when you have one of your own,” said John. He tried to sound casual. “Or then again, you might not.”

Sherlock, who was once again trying to wiggle his still swollen toes, turned his head and cast his gaze at John. He studied him for an uncomfortably long moment. John knew he was being measured, assessed. 

“I might,” he said at last. But his gaze remained on John’s face a bit too long, and when he looked away, John caught a hint of a smile on his face.

“You’re in here for the rest of the day,” John said. He busied himself cleaning up the shaving paraphernalia. “When the boys finish for the day, Jimmy will come in with one of the others and help me move you to the parlour for the evening. Mrs. Hudson is getting the guest room ready for you - you can sleep there from now on. I’ve a desk in there, and a work table, so you can spread out and get on with your investigation.”

“You mean so _we_ can,” Sherlock corrected. He pointed at the stack of pouches on the table. “Soils - six samples taken from six different ranches - all at sites I combed after rustlers hit. I have constituent particles to examine, distribution charts to create.” He paused and pressed his lips together. “And frankly, one more site to visit - we were scouting it out when my accident occurred.”

“You won’t be getting on a horse again for quite some time,” John said. He was firm, but gentle, as if expecting an unpleasant reaction.

“ _I_ won’t need to get on a horse. You will.”

And two hours later, John Watson stood alone on the bank of a small stream. He’d tethered his horse and walked the last hundred feet or so, having had no problem following Sherlock’s detailed directions. 

His ranch. His own barbed wire was responsible for Sherlock’s injuries. Damn but he hated the horrible stuff.

He found the campsite exactly where Sherlock had told him it would be. Downstream just a bit from the trail, under a grove of cottonwoods. They’d cleared the area for a fire pit and had piled rocks around the edges. And just as Sherlock had predicted, he found them - flat, compressed, dried slivers of mud knocked off of boots or scraped off with knives. 

He felt rather ridiculous crawling around on his hands and knees gathering wedges of mud and dropping them into the canvas pouch Sherlock had given him.

 _Traded_ him, he reminded himself. Sherlock had been only too eager to accept the tobacco Mike had left for him, and directed John to a fabric bag containing two pipes. He’d offered one to John, but John declined politely.

“Not sure what I’m going to do with you,” Sherlock muttered as he held a match to the now packed pipe and drew in a slow breath. “First the mustache - and now you turn your nose up at a good smoke.”

“I didn’t turn my nose up,” John said. “I smoke at times - winter evenings, sometimes, with a good whiskey.”

“Then you’re missing three perfectly good seasons,” Sherlock replied. The pipe in hand and lungful of tobacco smoke seemed to have been as effective as laudanum might have been for the pain. His face had relaxed, losing some of the tension it had carried these last few days. He opened his mouth into an O and blew a perfect smoke ring. John watched it rise then dissipate in the air.

Sherlock had then proceeded to give him instructions, quietly but assuredly, as if he had no doubt that John would follow them.

It turned out that Sherlock was quite good at issuing them.

Instructions that John was, in fact, following now, at the rustler’s abandoned campsite near the creek.

The campsite to which Sherlock had been en route when his horse had been spooked and had thrown him into the fence.

The campsite he’d never actually _visited._ The campsite he’d known would be just exactly here.

John took care to gather good samples, moving about the grassy area around the fire pit and finding the dried mud wedges in several areas, just as Sherlock had predicted.

“They sleep in bedrolls, spreading out around the fire, boots beside them, or closer to the fire if they’re wet. They’ll knock them together before they put them back on, or scrape the bottom with a knife or a stick. They never think, John - never _think_ \- about what they’re leaving behind.” He’d paused dramatically, holding the pipe by its bowl and flourishing it rather dramatically. ”Evidence, John! Evidence!”

Now, John finished layering the boot scrapings in the pouch, and carefully strung it back on his belt. He walked back and stood beside Juliet- his horse had come to him already named - and she gave a gentle whinny as he caressed her neck. Like Sherlock Holmes, John Watson had grown up around horses. He hadn’t ridden them for sport, but they’d provided bread and butter for the Watson table as John’s father was a farrier, working from their country cottage for families like Sherlock’s, forging horseshoes and shoeing horses. 

He should have followed in his father’s footsteps, taken on the trade, apprenticed at his father’s side. He could have been happy in the trade, would have been, but his mother had wanted something different for him. Had insisted that he continue in school, had scrimped and saved so that he’d have a chance at going on - to be a veterinarian, perhaps, or a doctor if the stars aligned properly.

Juliet stood still for him as he mounted. It hadn’t taken him nearly as long to complete the task as he’d thought it would - he’d been convinced he’d have a hard time finding the camp, or that on finding the location Sherlock described, he’d find no sign that it had been used by anyone, least of all the rustlers. With an extra hour he hadn’t anticipated, he tipped his hat lower against the sun and took his time getting back, riding east along the southern boundary of his property before heading north along a wash.

He’d grown accustomed to the denim trousers with their copper rivets, and on days when he helped with the cattle or set out through the scrub like today, had even taken to wearing leather chaps to protect his trousers from wear and his legs from cactus spines. He’d bought the boots new in Kansas City, and they were already as dusty, worn and supple as some of his ranch hands’. He’d laughed at the idea of a bandana until he’d swallowed enough dust to choke him, but had bought two dozen in town soon after. Mrs. Hudson washed and ironed them for him, and the boys laughed at that, but John shrugged and let it go.

This early in the year, with the snow so recently gone, the dust wasn’t bad, so he left the red bandana loose around his neck as he rode up the wash, letting Juliet take her time to pick out the easiest route.

God he loved this country. Remote, wild, with birds he’d never before seen, bird calls he’d never heard, rodents and snakes and creatures England would never know. And the sky that went on forever, the unfathomable colours of sunrise and sunset, the blankets of stars that stretched from west to east and seemed to meet the earth at either horizon. The vastness of America never ceased to impress him, the richness of its offerings, the millions of places to settle, to start over.

To hide - if someone had a reason to hide, a desire to slip away and disappear for a time or for forever.

He took care of Juliet himself when he reached the stables, putting away the tack and brushing her down before heading back to the house with the little pouch still on his belt.

He heard the music while he was still yards away from the front porch, music rising low and sweet and melodious and it was everything he thought he’d never hear again, everything he thought he’d never _wanted_ to hear again. Music for the piano - a sonata Mary had played more times than he could count. He remembered her sitting at the piano, heavy with child, _playing for your son, rocking him to sleep with moonlight_ she’d always said with that hopeful smile on her sickly face. 

Beethoven’s Au Clair de Lune. The Moonlight Sonata.

Sherlock could not have known.

He steeled himself, composed his features. Opened the door.

He walked into the music, through it. Stopped in the kitchen, hands resting on the back of a chair, clutching, unclutching. Music so familiar - yet so different. Music for the piano, played on the violin, and soaring so far above the beautiful yet simple life Mary had given it. He’d never tired of hearing her play, sitting beside her on the bench sometimes, or standing behind her, hands resting on her thin shoulders, watching her pale fingers caress the ivory keys.

But her music had never sounded like this. This - this had a life of its own, resonating full and clear and filling his heart, making his chest so tight he thought he could hardly breathe.

He pushed himself away from the chair, stepped to the doorway.

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice him. His face was pressed against the instrument, chin on the rest, and he was staring at his fingers as they drew the bow.

If he was in pain, John would never have known by the look on his face. He clearly was made for this pursuit, as much a part of the music as the violin and bow. John stared at his fingers as they drew the bow and worked the strings until the piece ended and the fingers stilled and Sherlock turned his head.

Sherlock had known he was there, then. He stared at John, wetted his lips. 

“Why did you play that piece?” John asked without preamble. “Au Clair de Lune?”

“Quasi una Fantasia,” Sherlock said, his voice pronouncing the foreign words with a velvety richness. He had lowered the violin into his lap and was still staring at John. “Beethoven’s Piano Sonata 14. Dedicated to his student Giulietta Guicciardi. I don’t play the piano - but I like the piece and adapted it.” He was watching John, looking right through him. “Do you know it, John?”

John untied the pouch from his belt and walked to the bed without answering. He dropped the bag onto the sheets beside Sherlock then moved to the end of the bed to examine the drying cast.

“It can take several days to dry completely,” he said, “but it’s doing well - we’ll go ahead with the plan to move you tonight.”

“John - ”

“Found the dirt right where you said it would be. Three people, I think, but I’m no expert. You’ll need a work area set up, I expect. There’s plenty of room in the parlour.”

“Is there a piano in the parlour, John, or did you leave it in England?”

John froze. He didn’t ask how Sherlock had known. He didn’t need to. He’d been too obvious, too transparent.

He shook his head.

“I sold it,” he said. “After she died - before I decided to leave England.”

“And that piece - Au Clare de Lune?” 

John closed his eyes, opened them, looked up at the ceiling and blew out a breath. “She played it nearly every day those last months. She said it calmed the...the baby.”

His voice broke, and he backed away from Sherlock. “I need to get these riding clothes off.”

“Right. Of course you do. Go on then.” 

His gaze moved down from John’s face, and it was only John’s imagination that it lingered on the leather chaps. “You surprised me - coming in here like that,” Sherlock said. “I’d never peg you for an Englishman in those clothes.”

John welcomed the change of subject. He tugged at the bandana around his neck, pulling it around until he could untie the knot.

“I resisted at first. I didn’t want to look like everyone else here, but soon realised there’s a reason for everything they wear.” He indicated his feet. “Boots for protection - especially against snake bite. The denims are tough and warm, chaps keep the cactus spines out and help the denim last even longer. Bandana’s for the dust - Mrs. Hudson irons them before I wear them - the boys think she mothers me.”

Sherlock’s eyes rose to John’s hat. It was John’s favorite, a Stetson Cavalry hat, black with tan ties. John looked surprised, then reached up and took it off his head.

“Forgot about it,” he said. “I heard the music and...well, I got distracted.”

“It suits you,” Sherlock said. “Much more than the mustache does.”

John cracked a smile. “Still on about that,” he said. “Maybe I like it because it covers my ugly mouth.”

Sherlock had picked up his violin and tucked it under his chin. He held the bow at the ready, then turned his head slowly to stare at John.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said. He drew the bow down over the strings slowly and didn’t say another word.

ooOoo

The ranch house was neither large nor grand, though the rooms were spacious and the construction tight. A porch wrapped around the front of the house, planked in pine from the mountains, and led into a formal parlour with a central fireplace. The bedrooms were in the back of the house, two fairly large, and a third off the first, originally intended as a nursery. John had made this room into his office and library.

The second bedroom hadn’t been used since John moved in, though he’d bought furnishings for it, a bed and dresser and wardrobe and chair, and finished it off with desk and table. Mrs. Hudson swept it out and made the bed, then, despite Sherlock’s protests, carried his clothing from the sickroom to the guestroom and tucked it away in the wardrobe. She came back, at his request, with one of the pair of trousers Mike had brought for him, and with a pair of sewing shears, cut off the right leg at the knee.

It was John, however, who helped him dress before the boys came in after dinner to move him to the parlour.

“Mike’s boys brought over some crutches while you were sleeping earlier. I don’t want you using them just yet - we should wait another day to make sure the cast is good and dry.” 

“It’s dry already,” Sherlock answered. “There’s little or no humidity in this house.”

John considered. What Sherlock said was true. He was accustomed to a more rainy climate, to the constant moisture in the air.

“We’ll use them to get you into your bedroom tonight, then,” he offered. “I assume you’ve not been on crutches before?”

Sherlock shook his head. 

“You’ve been on your back for days now. This won’t be easy for you.”

He had maneuvered Sherlock’s pants on over the casted leg, drawing them up both legs and around his waist as Sherlock lifted his arse off the bed with difficulty. They were well-made, more expensive in themselves than any clothing John had owned in England. He followed with the trousers, and had to cut a slit up the inside of the short leg to allow more room for the bulky cast to pass through. While Sherlock removed John’s borrowed nightshirt and changed into the clean linen shirt John brought him, John pulled a sock on over his good foot.

They moved him to a kitchen chair, then the two ranch hands carried it carefully through the kitchen to the parlour, with John walking backwards, holding the broken leg out to support the weight of the cast. They settled Sherlock on the sofa and John carefully propped his foot on a stack of pillows on the side chair which he’d pulled up to the end of the sofa. While Sherlock settled himself and took in his new surroundings, John set up a table with maps and soil samples and the microscope and various supplies. Sherlock interrupted occasionally with a question about the furniture or decor or to direct the layout of his items.  


John finally had everything arranged to the exacting preference of his patient, and was looking forward to an evening with a good book and an adequate whiskey, when Sherlock pointed to a shelf beside the fireplace.

“Is that your wife?” he asked.

John didn’t have to glance over to answer. There was only one portrait in the room, the small drawing his sister Harriet had done of Mary the year she’d taken ill. Harriet was not a schooled artist, but she had a knack for capturing faces and emotions. 

“May I see it?”

Now John did turn to stare at the sketch. He had a few photographs, a formal pose they’d had done in their wedding attire, another of himself in his uniform just after he’d come home from Afghanistan. But he preferred this one for all its imperfections. His wife seen through his sister’s eyes, sitting on a chair in their small garden, watching the birds and butterflies. She looked every bit the woman John had loved, her features not yet marred by the certainty of impending death.

“Of course.”

He lifted the frame down carefully, glanced at it and ran his finger over the top, though he knew there would be no gathered dust. He handed it to Sherlock wordlessly, and stood back waiting while the other man examined it.

Sherlock did not say any of the placating, affirming or comforting phrases anyone else would have said at examining the portrait of a man’s wife, struck down in the prime of her life. But he stared at the picture for a long time, so long that John grew uncomfortable, and wanted to take it back from him and return it to its place on the shelf.

“She regretted having been born a woman,” he said at last. “She had a wanderlust that few understood - save you.” He paused, but did not look at John. “Rebellious. Strong-willed. She held her own with you. You loved her, and you miss her. She was your partner, and your friend, and she made life bearable when you came home from war. But she wasn’t the love of your life, Dr. Watson.”

John, numbly shocked, reached over without a word and took the portrait from Sherlock’s hands. His own were shaking, something Sherlock surely noticed, though he didn’t comment on it. He didn’t return the portrait to its place, but strode quickly from the room, taking the portrait of his dead wife with him. He went directly to his room, and placed the portrait on his dresser, then sank onto his bed, breathing hard, staring at the door.

Why hadn’t he denied it? Why hadn’t he taken the opportunity to put the man in his place, challenge him, call him out on his rudeness and affrontery? How _dare_ he?

John dropped his head into his hands.

How the hell had Sherlock known? Had he seen it in John? Or in a two-dimensional portrait of a woman in a garden? 

And how had he known those things about Mary? Her wanderlust, her frustration with the limits society imposed on her? Was it her desire to come to America? Something about the look in her eyes? The way she was posed, leaning forward on the garden chair, hands on her knees?

Or was it her music? The Beethoven piano sonata she’d loved so well, or the bits of Mary still evident in his home?

He fingered his lip, rubbing the mustache he’d taken such care to grow for her, recalling how it had tickled her when he’d kissed her before it had grown in, how she’d trim it for him, and trace her fingers over it, and, when they first spoke of going to America, how she’d told him he would make a proper cowboy, if only he’d wax it and curl the ends.

He’d kept it out of habit after she died. Hadn’t even thought of shaving it in the months he’d been here in Wyoming. Wondered what he’d look like clean-shaven - if he’d look younger, as Sherlock claimed.

Wondered why this was important to him. Why he even cared.

Sherlock Holmes was a curious man. Intelligent, blunt, direct to the point of rudeness.

But fascinating. Insightful. And awakening in John a long-buried curiosity, the flame of adventure, of skirting the edge of safety and propriety. 

With Mary beside him, Mary to care for, Mary to fill his days with laughter and his nights with warmth, he’d not been tempted. It was enough. _She_ was enough. He’d loved her, God how he’d loved her. 

When she was gone, he’d come to America to forget, to start over. The new land, new friends, the new life - should have been enough.

And it was. It had been.

Until Mike Stamford, damn him to hell, brought Sherlock Holmes through his ranch house door.

John stood, walked to his dresser and stared into the mirror.

He touched his mustache.

It did make him look old.

But why did he care? Why the _hell_ did he care?


	4. Teetering on a Precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds himself being sucked slowly and surely into the desires of his past as Sherlock indulges in a sure cure for boredom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick chapter with a lot of John and Sherlock. Enjoy!

Chapter 4

Sherlock Holmes was a menace on crutches.

The first night he’d used them, after John had fled into his bedroom to gather his nerves and wits again after the incident with the sketch of his dead wife, it was only through the grace of God that they made it to his bedroom without a major accident.

Sherlock watched impatiently as John modeled the correct movements.

“Of course. The movement is rudimentary – how else would one _possibly_ try to move on them?”

John stared at Sherlock, opened his mouth to throw back an unkind retort, but closed it again and sighed.

“Fine. Since you’re the expert, get yourself into the bedroom.”

Sherlock took the crutches, studying them distastefully.

“It’s the best we could do with such short notice,” John explained, frowning at the expression on Sherlock’s face, which was one, John thought, he might have used for something distasteful on the bottom of his boot.

Sherlock held the crutches together in one hand against the floor and attempted to stand by pushing himself up from the arm of his chair.

“I can do this - I don’t need help,” he insisted, as John attempted to help him, despite the fact that, even without instruction, he was using exactly the correct technique to stand.

“They’re far too short for you,” John warned, moving to Sherlock’s side as he moved one crutch to his other hand and wrapped his hands around the plain wooden posts. “One of Mike’s hired men used them last fall after a bad fall. He was probably four inches shorter than you by the looks of it.”

“It’s fine - they’re fine. It’s not far,” Sherlock snapped.

“You’ve got to keep the cast off the floor - no - not even a little - Sherlock!”

Sherlock batted him away with a crutch, supporting himself on only one and still managing to keep his casted leg off the floor - but just barely.

“I’m having one of the boys fix these for you,” John said, exasperated. He was walking just behind Sherlock as the other man took slow, laborious steps - stepping forward with the crutches only, then hopping forward with the good leg as instructed. As the crutches were too short, Sherlock had to bend over far too much, making lifting the bad leg very difficult.

“If you hadn’t added two stone to me with this cast - ”

“You’d still be on your back in bed with a splinted leg - probably for several more weeks,” John shot back, interrupting his rant. “And you might be still, if you aren’t careful on those crutches and you fall and break it again.”

“This would be infinitely faster if I just sat on the floor and scooted on my arse.”

“Infinitely?” John shook his head, exasperated.

“Monumentally.”

John tried to keep calm. Sherlock was in pain and growing increasingly bored in a stranger’s home. “Fine - do it backwards, though, so you’re dragging your leg behind you and not pushing it in front of you,” he said. “I’ll be in my bedroom. Scream a bit if you need anything.”

He didn’t leave, of course. Sherlock had finally made it to the doorway of the bedroom and the bed was mere paces away. 

“Don’t _hover_ ,” Sherlock said as John moved beside him.

“I’m your doctor. I’ll do all the damn hovering I want,” John answered. He moved carefully past Sherlock and stood by the bed, waiting.

The bedding was already turned back, the bed full-sized and topped with a church window quilt over a feather ticking and piled with a stack of pillows. When Sherlock finally reached it, he managed to turn then sink onto the edge. He held his crutches in one hand in front of him, breathing heavily.

“Sherlock - I know you’re in pain, and I know being here is incredibly inconvenient for you,” John began, taking the crutches and leaning them against the footboard. “But I’m doing -”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Sherlock blew out a slow breath and looked at John. “I’m...difficult...on a good day. Or so I’m told.”

John helped ease Sherlock into bed, positioning two pillows and resting the broken leg on them. He left the room, returning a short time later with the whiskey bottle and two glasses. He poured a measure for Sherlock and handed it to him, then filled his own glass.

“Drink up. I’m going to change the dressing on your leg. I doubt I can make it hurt much more than it already does.” John took a swallow of whiskey, feeling the pleasant burn as it sank into his gut. He could see Sherlock watching him over the top of his own glass as he drank.

At length, Sherlock set his glass down on the bed stand. “Despite my rather unpleasant disposition, I do realise that I’m receiving excellent care,” he said. He raised an eyebrow. “Far beyond what I’d expect from what Mike calls ‘frontier medicine.’”

“I think Mike has plans for me,” John said. He pulled the chair over and straddled it, facing Sherlock. “He lets me pretend I’m a rancher, but he practically runs this place as an extension of his own ranch, which conveniently frees up my time for emergency surgery.”

“Mike’s a good man,” Sherlock stated. “There’s more to him then would appear on the surface. He has your best interests at heart, I’m sure.”

John grinned. “He’d like me to be one of the family, as you might have gathered,” he said. 

“Abigail is not your type,” Sherlock said. He reached for his glass and tipped it back, draining it. “She is too young, too buxom, and essentially illiterate.”

“Too buxom?” John repeated.

“Well, perhaps not _my_ type, then,” Sherlock said. The corners of his mouth twitched as if he wanted to smile but was keeping himself from doing so.

John looked away. They were teetering dangerously close to the topic again. 

“Mike was a godsend when I got here. He’s taught me a lot – not just about ranching, but about the people here, and the land. His support has meant that I’ve eased into life here - not as an outsider, but on even ground with the others.”

He set his glass beside Sherlock’s and stood. “Let’s take a look at that leg,” he said.

Undressing the wound meant undressing Sherlock too. He unbuttoned his trousers, then lifted his hips and John helped him tug down both trousers and pants. John unwound the cotton strips that wrapped all the way around Sherlock’s thigh, then pulled the bandage away from the wound as carefully as he could.

And while the wound was healing well, it was inevitable, given the extent of the tearing from the barbed wire, that it would leave an ugly scar.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” John said. He pressed his fingers against the flesh to test the temperature of the skin.

“It’s just my leg,” Sherlock said. “Almost no one will see it. And the scars will fade with time.”

“Well, I’m just sorry you got it here, on my ranch,” John said. “I hope you’ll have something more pleasant to remember me by than a scarred leg and a two-stone cast.”

Sherlock smiled. “I already do,” he said. 

John looked up at him, surprised, but Sherlock had closed his eyes and dropped his head back on his pillows. John, accustomed to his patient’s expressions by now, saw that he was in pain. 

“Still a no on the laudanum, I take it,” he said. He had poured a measure of iodine in a bowl he’d brought in earlier, then dropped a length of cotton gauze in it and laid it on the wound before he rewrapped it.

“Another whiskey,” Sherlock said. “I’ve made it this far - I’ll go without the laudanum.”

John poured another measure and arranged the pillows so Sherlock could sit up more comfortably. He picked up Sherlocks pants and trousers and draped them over the chairback. Sherlock, wearing only a linen shirt and one sock, seemed as comfortable unclothed as clothed. Certainly, he made no move to ask for his pants, and didn’t seem to care that he sometimes exposed himself when he shifted to a new position on the bed.

There was probably nothing overt about it, or at least it seemed innocent enough to John. Sherlock was a patient in a sickbed. Issues of modesty had little weight in such situations. And with pain being his primary sensation these last days, there seemed little chance of unwanted arousal, though John doubted that an untimely erection would bother Sherlock much anyway. 

Sherlock looked around the room as he sipped at the whiskey. His gaze rested on the window, and John remembered then that the little sick room had no window, and Sherlock would surely appreciate the natural light.

“The room faces east,” he said. “You’ll have sunlight in the morning.”

“Good,” answered Sherlock. “Perhaps I can sit outside tomorrow.”

“Let’s see how you’re feeling in the morning,” John said. “We might want to give those stitches a few more days then take them out before you venture outdoors.”

John left Sherlock a few minutes later, bringing him first a book he requested so he could continue to read by oil lamp. He left his own bedroom door open that night, as he had every night since Sherlock had come to his home. The two whiskeys made falling asleep easy enough, and he hoped they would keep some of the pain at bay for Sherlock, enough, at least, for him to fall asleep through the pain.

He didn’t know what awakened him at the first light of early morning. Not screaming, or calling. Restless movement, throttled cursing, then, what got him out of bed after he was already awake and listening, the crash of something - the oil lamp? - hitting the floor.

He stumbled into Sherlock’s room, barefoot, and pulled open the curtains to let the feeble light in. The oil lamp lay on the floor, glass chimney shattered, oil pooling around it. Sherlock was desperately rubbing his injured leg.

“What’s wrong?” John asked as he quickly picked his way through the broken glass. “Stop - you’re going to hurt yourself.” 

“Cramp,” Sherlock managed. 

“Damn. Stop - here - let me.” John pushed Sherlock’s hands away. “Hamstring?” Sherlock nodded curtly, and John worked his hands under the leg, rubbing the muscle to try to ease the cramping. It could hardly have been a less convenient place - Sherlock couldn’t flex his foot or bend his knee to relieve it, and the stitches and healing wound had to be treated carefully.

Beneath John’s fingers, the muscles were only gradually relaxing. He had worked his hands under the thigh, palms up, fingers kneading the hamstring muscles. Sherlock had fallen back onto his pillows and groaned as John worked.

Sherlock’s legs were long and lean, the hamstrings tight beneath the flesh. In the half light of morning, with his fingers grasping the taut muscles of Sherlock’s legs, with Sherlock stretching, groaning, muttering under his breath, almost gasping - _yes...there...that’s good...just there…_ , John could not help but recall the feel of other flesh beneath his fingers, the strength of other thighs, the whispered moans of other lips. And try as he did to will away the memory of rough fingers on his flesh, of stubbled chin, strong, muscular legs around his waist, he couldn’t push away the muscle memory imprinted on his heart, nor the arousal that gripped him as he continue to knead Sherlock’s flesh, even when his fingers grew tired and sore.

And finally Sherlock seemed to relax.

“Alright - alright. I’m fine,” he gasped. “That’s good.” He fumbled between his thighs as he spoke, and grasped John’s wrist. “That’s enough. Thank you.” He blew out a long breath. “Thank you.”

John was acutely aware of the fingers that banded his wrist, of the sharp pain in his foot - he must have stepped on a glass shard after all - and of the erection that pressed against the fabric of his long johns. He released a breath, aware that Sherlock was essentially eye-level with his groin.

“You’ve done that before,” said Sherlock. He released John’s wrist and John stepped back, grimacing as the already-forgotten glass shifted in his skin.

“My - my wife,” he lied. He felt awkward and on edge - for being aroused, for lying, for the surge of feelings that were pushing against this replacement life he’d so carefully and deliberately constructed. “Do you need anything else?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly, and John tried a smile.

“I’m back to bed then. Call if you need me again.”

He turned away and limped back into his own room, walking on the ball of his foot to keep the heel off the ground. He lit a lamp and removed the glass from his foot, taking the time to be sure he had found all the fragments, and to clean and bandage it well. It hurt, but the ache kept his thoughts solidly in the here and now. He put on his dressing gown and a pair of old house shoes, ignoring his arousal, not trusting himself to be able to take himself in hand and be done with it, to find his release without his thoughts returning to Hope.

_Or to Holmes._

He needed to clean up the glass and the spilled oil in Sherlock’s bedroom, but decided to warm some towels first, as the heat would help to keep more cramps at bay. It was early still - Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be here ‘til seven - so he padded out to the parlour and stirred up the still-glowing embers in the hearth, added wood from the stack on the hearth, then pushed two bricks up against the embers and went to the kitchen to fetch clean towels. 

He set his mind to the matter of his daily chores - he wanted to inspect the fence line to the north this week, and get his supply order together for the next run to town. He’d need to order in more Plaster of Paris, though he hoped he’d not have to use any more any time soon, and would stop by Mrs. Merriwether’s to request more bandaging strips. 

And whiskey. He was definitely going to need more whiskey these next few weeks.

Mrs. Hudson always put the kettle on the stove first thing, but when he was up early, he hung a kettle on the hook over the fire and got an early start of it. Before he hung the iron kettle, he dipped a finger in and flicked a few droplets of water at the brick. They sizzled when they landed, so he pulled out a brick with the tongs and quickly wrapped it in one of the towels, then added another larger towel on top the first so he could easily handle it.

He glanced at the mantel clock. Thirty minutes had passed since he’d left Sherlock’s room - surely the man would be sleeping by now. He would arrange the heated brick beside his leg, then go dress for the day and get outside for an early start on his morning chores. With nothing to do save read and think, Sherlock had been sleeping in until Mrs. Hudson bustling about in the kitchen woke him. Today, with the restless night behind him and the new quarters removed from the kitchen, he was likely to sleep in even longer.

Only he wasn’t sleeping.

John didn’t hear him until he was already in the doorway. The noises Sherlock was making were quiet, soft groans, quiet grunts. He stopped, brick held out in front of him in both hands, and stayed there in the doorway, immobile, watching.

Watching Sherlock Holmes, eyes closed, hand wrapped around his member, pulling it lazily, almost languidly, as if he had all the time in the world to devote to this indulgent self-pleasure. He was still wearing his nightshirt, and one hand reached up under it, surely stroking a nipple, or perhaps pinching it tightly, releasing it to graze over it, pinch it again.

John swallowed.

Sherlock’s head was tilted back on the pillow, long column of neck stretched to its fullest extent, and his face - Jesus, his face. He was biting his full bottom lip, squeezing his eyes shut as his hand moved up his shaft, fisted over the head, twisted as it squeezed and slid back down the shaft again. 

John’s lips were dry. He wetted them with his tongue, holding his breath. Sherlock’s good leg was bent at the knee, and it was just light enough to see the hint of testicles, already beginning to draw up tight. 

His hands began to protest the heat of the brick coming through the towels, and he nearly fumbled as he shifted the weight in his hands, then turned on his heel and stepped back and away from the door.

But once there, out of sight, he lost the battle of mind over body, and could not force himself to move his feet and return to the parlour. Instead, he leaned his forehead against the wall just outside the door, breathing slowly, as quietly as possible, and listening - _listening_ in the early morning quiet, listening to the oh-so-soft moans, the barely-there slide of flesh on flesh. He was hard again already, pulling want pooling in his groin, and only by force of will was he able to keep from pressing his whole body against the wall, seeking friction, pressure of any kind. 

The soft sounds of hand on flesh increased in frequency, the not quite swallowed moans gave way to breathy pants. A deep protracted groan followed by a soft, languid sigh told John that Sherlock had spent himself at last, but John remained motionless, brick cooling in his hands, feeling for all the world that he was standing on a precipice, a step away from a fatal fall, and the very earth was shaking beneath him.


	5. A Breath of Fresh Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to town for supplies and stops by Sherlock's hotel room to pick up some items for his house guest. He is not as surprised as he should be by what he finds inside Sherlock's wardrobe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 19K+ words in and still the UST. I committed to ending the UST before 40,000....

Chapter 5

On Monday, a week after putting them in, John removed the stitches from Sherlock’s leg.

Routine surgeries such as this one, with tweezers and scissors in hand, tugging at the black thread until it pulled free of the healing flesh, mentally anchored John in his appointed role of doctor. He was a physician treating a patient, and the fact that the leg in question was one he had massaged in the middle of the night a few days before was inconsequential. 

John dropped the last suture onto the tray.

“It’s a pleasant day - probably a good one to spend on the porch if you’re still interested in seeing the sun.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He’d been pestering John every day about going outside, but John had drawn a line in the sand. “When the stitches come out,” he’d said. “It will be a week. Practice indoors on your crutches until then. The porch isn’t well planed.”

Unbelievably, Sherlock had obeyed, even though he’d had ample opportunity to venture outside on his own. John spent most of his day working outdoors, coming inside for lunch with the ranch hands and now and again to see how things were going with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. He had no way of policing Sherlock other than putting Mrs. Hudson on the case. The two had settled into an odd sort of camaraderie, with Sherlock somehow managing to earn her forgiveness and to worm his way into her good graces. She made him tea whenever he requested it, and took an interest in his investigation, sometimes sitting across from him as he sat awkwardly at the work table, sideways in his chair with his casted leg propped up on a pillow, meticulously studying soil samples and taking notes in his elegant hand. She spent as much time ironing his clothing for him as she did for John, and hemmed his two pair of shorn trousers so they’d look more presentable, no matter than the ranch hands and Mike Stamford were the only ones to see him besides John and herself.

In return, or perhaps because he couldn’t possibly dissect soil grain by grain the entire day, Sherlock read aloud to Mrs. Hudson.

She’d come into the parlour to fold laundry, or do her ironing, or even to peel potatoes or cut up onions, and he’d recline on the sofa and read aloud whatever piece she wanted to hear. She favoured adventures, and brought some of her husband’s books that had been salvaged by her friends there at the end, and he read to her in that rich baritone that filled the air so fully, as if he were a minister at the pulpit. John found them at it time and again when he came in from the ranch, and a time or two he went into the parlour with them and sat listening for a quiet half hour.

But today, with the pronouncement that he could finally spend some time outside and get some air, Sherlock found a book of his own choosing and hobbled outside carefully, navigating the doorstep and the slightly rough boards of the porch with his crutches before settling into the chair John had prepared for him. It was low and long, and had a separate footrest pulled to the end.

John lifted the casted leg carefully and settled it on the ottoman, then pulled a low three-legged table next to the chair as Mrs. Hudson arranged a quilt over Sherlock. He rolled his eyes at John, who covered a smile.

“I can’t pretend to do my work out here while you read aloud,” she said. “We’ll have to hold off until you’re settled on the sofa again.” She tucked the blanket around his legs then straightened up as John settled in a chair beside Sherlock. Unlike Sherlock, he was dressed for the spring weather, and Mrs. Hudson didn’t hover over him.

“Tea, I think,” he said to her before she went back to her chores indoors. “If you put the kettle on, I’ll come and get it in a bit.”

“Stay right there, Mr. Watson - I’ll put it together for you,” she said. She winked. “I may not be an Englishwoman, but I’ve learned a thing or two about what you like this past year.”

“Tea with a splash of milk, though you’re fine without. Strong and hot. No sugar. You miss your biscuits, and have learned to make do with what you can get in town. You could request exactly what you want and have the locals order them in - you’ve got the income to do so, but don’t want to put the proprietress through any trouble on your account. Sometimes, you put a kettle on the fire and make your own tea, range style, if you’re up early and want a cup before Mrs. Hudson arrives and gets the stove going.”

Sherlock paused and John saw the small, satisfied smile that crossed his face. John smiled in return.

“You hear me in the mornings, then? Do I make that much noise?”

“You’re predictable, a man of routine. Especially in the morning.” He stretched, getting comfortable in the chair. “You make very little noise, but it’s the _same_ noise, every day.”

John looked away as a blush began to creep up his face. He’d left the Victorian idea that self-pleasure was vile and unhealthy back in England.

“Since you’re obviously awake anyway, you could get out of bed and join me for tea,” he said. He stretched out his arms and arranged them over the arms of the chair, settling in much as Sherlock had. “The exercise won’t hurt you now.”

“Ah - speaking of exercise, are you planning a trip to town anytime soon?” Sherlock didn’t wait for John to answer. “I require a few more items from my room at the hotel, and some supplies from the Mercantile.” He paused as if thinking, then smirked. “Unless you plan to let me back on a horse in the next week?”

“You’re mad, you know it?” John said. “Completely mad.” He looked out to the west to where mountains rose in the distance, the sky bluer than blue, clouds barely touching the still snow-covered peaks. The land before them dropped into a valley, browns turning to deep greens along the distant river. He loved this view. It reminded him of nothing in his previous life. It was still utterly new, a view into his future instead of his past.

A future that had recently taken an unexpected turn.

“I do need to get into town this week. But I didn’t want to go until I was reasonably sure you could do for yourself for a day. One of the boys can come in if you need something Mrs. Hudson can’t help you with.”

Sherlock laughed.

“Say what you mean, John. We aren’t in England, are we?” He gestured toward the west, and took a deep breath of the fresh air. “And no, I won’t offend her sensibilities and ask her to help me use the privy, so to speak,” he said.

Mrs. Hudson brought the tea, and John and Sherlock took a cup together before John went back inside for his hat, then left through the kitchen door for the stables. Hank, George’s teenage son, had Juliet saddled and waiting for him, and he mounted and set out. He cut across the front of the house as he set off north, but pulled Juliet around when he saw Sherlock looking his way, unabashedly studying him. He walked the horse over toward the porch, and addressed Sherlock without dismounting.

“I’m heading to the fence row north of here at my property line. Do you need me to fetch something for you while I’m out? Rattlesnake, maybe? Cactus? Pocketful of rocks?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John grinned as Sherlock smiled then made a motion as if to tip his hat.

“My hat didn’t make it back with me,” he said. “Will you pick it up if you see it blowing around?”

John grinned. “It’s probably caked with mud and trampled by the horses,” he said. “Why don’t I pick you up a new one in town tomorrow?”

Sherlock, head tipped slightly to the side, was studying John’s hat now. His eyes ran down John’s body then, and he finally moved his gaze over the horse.

“Beautiful,” he said. “Young, strong. Is he spirited?” 

He glanced up at John, then back at the horse.

“She,” John replied slowly, distractedly patting his horse on her neck. He was staring at Sherlock now, though Sherlock didn’t meet his eyes. “And her name is Juliet.”

He guided her back a step or two.

“And she suits me,” he said.

He nodded at Sherlock, then pulled Juliet around and rode off to the north at a good clip, resisting every urge to look back.

ooOoo

John set out for town the next morning at daylight.

He’d managed to get out without Sherlock remembering one last thing he needed, as he had done from supper time until bedtime the night before. He’d been ready with a list when John had returned from surveying the fence mid-afternoon, and the list had grown as the evening progressed.

“A brown envelope, inside the pocket of my blue dressing gown, which is hanging up inside the wardrobe.” He had taken the list from John and wrote the new request on the bottom. “And do mind the used handkerchief in the pocket - I would have removed it had I known I’d be sending you back for it but unfortunately - ” here he gave John an apologetic look that didn’t begin to appear sincere - “unfortunately, I had no idea.” 

“What’s this one again?” John pointed to a word halfway along the list. 

“Magnifying lens - a set of hand lenses, inside a leather case under the bed. Exercise caution there - “

“Dirty handkerchiefs?” John asked, mouth twitching to hide a grin.

“Rats,” deadpanned Sherlock. 

Now, riding Juliet down the worn trail, he felt inside his pocket for the list and shook his head. The way Sherlock Holmes just assumed - assumed John was at his beck and call. Assumed John would have no problem finding obscure items and crawling under his bed looking for magnifying lenses.

How was it even possible that the man could have so much left in his rented room? Mike had brought enough already to fill up the dresser and the work table, and the volume seemed - impossibly - to have doubled over the course of the week.

The trail passed through Mike’s ranch before reaching the road into town. John turned east and continued on his way, determining to stop and say hello to Mike on the return trip. He made it into town by nine and headed first for the Apothecary, then ducked into the Mercantile. 

He placed his orders, then asked for Sherlock’s order as well. Sherlock had assured him he’d ordered in some special items, which were pre-paid and should be waiting for him. Books and solvents, he’d said, a blood drawing kit, a riding crop, some spirit gum, a bowler hat which could be left in his hotel room for the time being.

Sherlock’s order was already packed up, so John took it with him, but left most of his own supplies to pick up on his way out of town. He headed to the hotel, just across from the post office, and handed the letter Sherlock had prepared to the proprietress, who shook her head at John in commiseration.

“Shoot any holes in your wall yet because he’s bored?” she asked, standing up and sorting through the keys until she found the one to Sherlock’s room. “Drugged your house guests because he said they were making too much noise at night? Come on - this way.”

She led him up a flight of steep, narrow stairs to a door marked with the numeral five, and opened the door to reveal a cluttered but spacious room.

“Good luck finding anything,” she said. “He’s as neat as he is polite.”

“He’s not been rude at all,” John said, feeling that he should really say something. “Especially considering how much pain he’s been in.”

She eyed him speculatively. “He has a way about him,” she said. “He has quite a knack for saying exactly what’s on his mind, no matter how - well, how inappropriate.”

“He’s observant,” John muttered noncommittally. He stepped inside the room and moved to the wardrobe, opening it and finding the blue dressing gown. The brown envelope was in the left pocket, behind the crumpled handkerchief. He extracted it and dropped it onto the bed, then knelt carefully beside it and lifted the spread gingerly.

“He told you about the rats.” The proprietress let out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, they’re gone now that they’ve eaten whatever it was he had under there.”

John withdrew his hands, then bent his head to peer under the bed. He saw the case and reached for it, sliding it carefully out then placing it on the bed beside the envelope.

The proprietress finally excused herself, asking John to close the door when he left and to let her know when he left. Alone, finally, John closed the door leading to the corridor and gave in to the nearly irresistible temptation to poke around a bit.

The curtains were open a few inches, admitting the morning light into the room. The bed was pushed against the wall and was done up with a white coverlet and two insubstantial pillows. The room contained a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, a night stand and a washstand, the surface of each littered with books, papers, and Sherlock’s personal possessions. John noted a pocket knife, a gold pocket watch on a chain, two pipes - one plain and one ornately carved, a single black glove, a hammer, two chisels, two coils of rope, a toothbrush, several bottles of coloured liquid, two pair of lethal-looking scissors and a jumble of cufflinks atop a pile of old shoelaces.

And on the chest of drawers, atop a stack of medical books, was a mustache.

A false mustache, dark and full, curled up on the ends.

John studied it for a full minute then picked it up to examine it.

A mustache.

And Sherlock had ordered spirit gum.

John recognised it as the disguise that it was, and replaced it where he found it. 

He slid open a drawer.

Pants. Socks. Handkerchiefs. Suspenders. Starched collars.

A pair of black stockings, plain and ordinary. Women’s stockings, with garters just as plain and ordinary as the stockings. They could have been his mother’s. 

Odd.

A roll of currency - quite a bit of currency, in fact. He didn’t count it, but stuffed it back behind the socks.

A stack of letters. All of them addressed to M. Sherlock Holmes in San Francisco, all but one of them in the same handwriting. He looked at the lone anomaly, noted the London postmark, but resisted the urge to open it, and placed it back with the others after bringing it to his nose and sniffing it.

It held no hint of perfume. Probably not from the rejected fiancé the family had chosen for him then. He’d thought not. It was a man’s handwriting, for sure, fine and aristocratic.

He closed the drawer.

He found various other elements of disguise about the room - a black eye patch, a sandy blonde wig, a beard to match the wig, some face powder, two pair of spectacles.

Hanging inside the wardrobe was a threadbare, dirty suit - old beyond measure, in style and wear, smelling of cigarette smoke and campfires. A hobo disguise, John thought, and he found a pair of worn socks with holes in the toes inside the pockets, impossibly old and worn shoes with nearly detached soles tucked into a drawer.

The biggest surprise was not the mustache, nor the hobo disguise, not the largest amount of currency John had ever seen in one place outside of a bank, but the black dress.

He found it in the wardrobe, just next to the grey coat Sherlock had requested, a rather plain, high-collared affair with accompanying black petticoats and shawl, a very forgettable black hat and a not so forgettable corset. Not so forgettable, John thought, not because it was anything at all special as corsets went, but because it was so intimate, something worn primarily to enhance the shape and figure.

The shape and figure belonging to a young man, not an old woman. And even if this was, as John suspected, a disguise just as the old suit surely was, he was still a bit taken aback.

It bothered him somewhat that he wasn’t at all as taken aback as he thought he should be.

He shook his head and let the clothes fall back together, piling the grey coat onto the bed atop the other things.

He wasn’t at all sure now that being Sherlock’s sidekick wouldn’t skirt the edge of danger in more ways than one.

He packed up everything as efficiently as he could, just managing to get it all inside a single, rather bulky bag that he could tie behind the saddle with the other supplies from the Mercantile. He picked up the bag and turned in the center of the cluttered room once more, then stepped to the wardrobe and opened it. He slid the clothes to the side piece by piece until the black dress was exposed, and studied it again, pushing it aside after a moment to stare at the corset.

After a time, he let the clothes fall back together, but stood there motionless for a long moment, staring at nothing, before he turned and left the room.

ooOoo

Sherlock was playing again when he returned.

He heard him as he swung by the house, taking Juliet to the stables, where Hank took the reins and led her inside after John unloaded the supplies then removed his chaps, hanging them on a hook inside the door. He stretched, stiff and sore after the long day on horseback, picked up the bags, and headed toward the kitchen door. He wanted nothing more than to take off his boots, strip down to denims and shirt, and have a good meal and a better whiskey.

He paused as the music changed, to a popular hymn that Mrs. Hudson frequently hummed, one that Mary had loved and played as well. Amazing Grace, full and poignant, clear, lingering notes, alive on the violin in a way that nearly shamed Mary’s piano.

Mrs. Hudson was sitting on a parlour chair, facing Sherlock. She had a handkerchief clutched in her hand.

John stood in the doorway between parlour and kitchen. Reflexively, he reached up slowly and removed his hat, holding it loosely in his hand as he watched Sherlock play.

Sherlock’s eyes were on his hands, on his fingers on the strings and bow. He was utterly absorbed in the music, the music that seemed as much a part of him as the violin. It filled the quiet room, and John wondered what other talents this odd man possessed - detective, musician, master of disguises, expert on soils, brilliant observer, gifted with quick wit and graceful hands.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson breathed when the last note died away, “that was just lovely. Thank you - thank you for that.” She wiped her eyes, then stood and bent to kiss his cheek, and he looked up at her, but his gaze moved past her wrinkled face and he caught John’s eye.

John took a step into the room.

“You’re amazing,” he said. “On the violin,” he added, too quickly. “Gifted. She’s right - that piece was beautiful.”

“Oh, Mr. Watson. He’s played all my favorites. He’s been so - well, so accommodating.”

“Small repayment for all your attention today,” murmured Sherlock. 

“You’ll be wanting supper, Mr. Watson,” Mrs. Hudson said, tucking the handkerchief away and moving toward the kitchen. “Mr. Holmes must be starving - he told me to hold his meal until you returned so he could eat with you.”

“You should have gone ahead and eaten,” John said as he watched Sherlock tuck violin and bow into the velvet-lined case. “I could have been much later.”

“Three hours to town, four back with the extra load and time to stop and say hello to Mike. Some time in town - a leisurely hour at Mrs. Prescott’s for a roast beef sandwich and some conversation with her sons, a visit to the bank and the survey office, a stop at the post office, a half an hour at the Mercantile, a quick stop-in at the Apothecary and - yes - a beer at the tavern.” He glanced at the mantel clock. “I’d say you’re precisely on time.”

“Corned beef,” John said. He’d walked to the fireplace, and placed one hand against the bricks for support. He pulled off one boot, then the other, then lined them up on the hearth and stretched each foot in turn, not looking at Sherlock, trying not to react at how nearly perfectly Sherlock had guessed his day’s routine.

“Corned beef,” Sherlock repeated quietly.

“You forgot my visit to your hotel room,” John said, straightening up. He dropped his hat into the chair Mrs. Hudson had occupied and scooted the bags together in front of the fireplace.

“I did not forget,” said Sherlock. “I added an extra hour precisely for that.”

They stared at each other. John swallowed. It should not have taken any more than fifteen minutes to gather the items Sherlock had requested.

Sherlock spoke at last. Quietly. Taking care so his voice would not carry into the kitchen. “John Watson, if I’m not wrong - and I seldom am - you are as intrigued with me as I with you.”

John’s hands were sweating, his face colouring, but he did not look away as Sherlock’s eyes held his.

“Supper!”

Mrs. Hudson’s voice broke the weighted silence, and in the end, it was Sherlock who looked away.

John counted it as a victory, but could not say what, exactly, he had won.


	6. The Universe is Rarely So Lazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's nightmares return, and Sherlock thinks he might have a cure.

Chapter 6

Mrs. Hudson stayed to clean up after dinner, so Sherlock and John’s conversation over their meal was ordinary and polite. Not once did either bring up Sherlock’s room at the hotel, or the contents of the drawers and the wardrobe, or why Sherlock might have the need to disguise himself as a hobo or an old woman in mourning.

Mrs. Hudson asked for all the news as she worked, and was particularly interested in John’s report that a newspaper was coming in, planning to start up right in town with a weekly newssheet. She asked for news of Mrs. Prescott at the restaurant, and Mr. and Mrs. Feltz at the Mercantile.

“You should come with me next time,” John said. “You haven’t been in since Christmas time and you could do with a day out.”

“Well, not until Sherlock can take care of himself,” she said.

“In another two weeks he can come with us. I’ll recast his leg before then – with a shorter cast so he can bend his knee and sit on the bench.”

“We’ll have a short visit in town or we’ll have to stay the night,” said Mrs. Hudson.

“Perhaps it can be a one-way trip for me,” Sherlock said. He had succeeded in arranging the food on his plate so that it seemed like he’d eaten most of it, though he’d hardly touched his meal. 

John raised his head and stared across at Sherlock. Sherlock was cutting a piece of beef, looking at his plate instead of at John. John watched his fingers for a moment, then ventured a reply.

“Tired of Mrs. Hudson’s cooking already, are you?”

“What? No. Of course not.” Sherlock made a show of eating a piece of meat. He chewed it a full minute before swallowing it. Mrs. Hudson, passing behind him, dropped her hand on his shoulder. 

“You don’t have to humour me, Mr. Holmes. I know cowboy fare isn’t your cup of tea, as you say. I just hope I’m getting your tea right.”

“Your tea is perfect,” Sherlock assured her. “It’s almost as good as John’s.”

“Hmph,” she replied. “John, you’ll need to show me your secret.”

“You can’t navigate those stairs every day,” John said as soon as Mrs. Hudson had gone. “They’re dark and narrow and steep. You won’t be able to carry anything up with you as long as you’re on crutches, and you’ll need help bathing.”

“I’m sure I can manage.”

“You can’t. You can’t get the cast wet – at all. How do you think you can step into a tub? You’re delusional.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I could use a bath now, actually,” he said, finally dropping the fork he’d been using to rearrange his food.

John put down his utensils and focused on Sherlock. “I think we can manage that in a week or two - once I get that cast off and replace it with one that stops below the knee. You can balance your leg on the edge of the tub that way. I’m not sure how you’d manage in the tub now.”

Sherlock sighed and scratched behind his ear. “My hair, at least, then. I can lean over the porch railing and have Mrs. Hudson pour a bucket of water over my head, or perhaps she can just shave it all off.”

“Mrs. Hudson will do no such thing!” Mrs. Hudson herself appeared, bringing in pudding.”You’ve such lovely hair, Mr. Holmes. A woman would kill for those curls.”

“They’re not practical here,” Sherlock said.

“They’re not practical when you can’t completely care for yourself,” John corrected. He thanked Mrs. Hudson as she placed his apple pie on the table. “But you shouldn’t shave your head if you like your hair how it is.” He ran thumb and forefinger over his mustache and looked at Sherlock significantly. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“I don’t like how my hair is now. I like it _clean_.” He frowned at his apple pie and took a small bite.

“I’ll help you with your hair in the morning, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson volunteered. “Wash it, I mean. Not shave it. I’m not going near your head with scissors or a razor.” She winked at John. “He’s like Samson, you realize. Cut his hair and he’ll lose all that lovely talent.”

John took a bite of pie, then another. He wanted to be thankful that Mrs. Hudson had offered to tend to Sherlock’s hair. No, he _was_ thankful. He didn’t need that kind of intimacy. Not with Sherlock - not with him somehow _knowing_. _Flirting._

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” 

It was John who spoke, not Sherlock. Sherlock simply nodded and took another small bite of pie.

George soon came for Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock hobbled back to the parlour on his crutches, his pie mostly untouched. John lit the lamps, then took the bags of supplies he’d lugged in from his trip to the kitchen table. He separated everything as he unpacked - kitchen supplies, personal items, Sherlock’s things.

Sherlock’s pile was the most interesting and definitely took up the most space. 

When everything was unpacked, he picked up the new hat he’d purchased for Sherlock and placed it on top of his pile.

It was very similar to his own, but brown instead of black, with fine black leather braided cording and a slightly wider brim. He’d spent some time choosing it, and felt rather ridiculous about it now. He’d just put it in Sherlock’s room with the rest of his things and be done with it. Sherlock wouldn’t need it for some time anyway.

He didn’t hear Sherlock in the parlour, and thought he might have gone back to his room to read and settle in for the evening. 

But he was stretched out on the sofa staring at the ceiling when John walked in. John trudged on through without speaking to him, heading directly to Sherlock’s room and dropping the pile on top of the work table they’d set up for his investigations.

“Would you bring the hat out here, please?”

Sherlock’s voice was cordial, but John was irritated. While phrased as a request, he heard it more a demand. No. He was just tired and Sherlock couldn’t mean anything by it. John grabbed the hat and headed back to the kitchen, tossing the hat to Sherlock as he passed through.

“John - ”

John paused just before the kitchen doorway and turned.

“Not what you had in mind?”

Sherlock was holding the hat, turning it in his hands, examining it inside and out. He looked up at John.

“It’s good - perfect.” He put it on his head, adjusting it. It fit well - John had guessed on the size. He adjusted the hat, tipping it so he could see John without canting his head too far back. “Did you find my old hat?” he asked.

“Your old hat?” John looked at him, confused. “The one that never made it here?”

Sherlock nodded. “Or course. That one.”

“No.” Of course he hadn’t found it. He hadn’t gone looking for it. They’d already determined it was probably mangled, trampled by the horses and cattle, flattened and covered in mud. “If you’re that attached to it, I’ll have one of the boys go take a look for you.” He gestured toward the new hat. “I can find a home for that one if you don’t want it.”

“John, you misunderstand me.” Sherlock took the hat off and examined it again, running his fingers around the band, fiddling with the leather braid. “This hat is nearly identical to the one I lost. It’s the same style, even the same colour, though my old one had brown cording, and it wasn’t braided.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Really,” said Sherlock, glancing at John.

“Happy coincidence,” John said, though he didn’t feel like it was mere coincidence at all.

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t believe in coincidence,” he said softly. “The universe is rarely so lazy.” He didn’t seem to be speaking to John, and didn’t look at him as he considered the hat with an odd expression on his face.

John shifted uncomfortably. “Did you buy yours in town?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “No.” He wetted his lips. John looked away. “I bought it in San Francisco, before I came here. I chose it after trying on dozens of hats.” He turned the hat over and caressed the brim. “I’m particular about my hats,” he said, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

“I guessed your size and chose from the ones I thought would fit,” John explained. 

Which wasn’t exactly true. He’d chosen this particular hat from the Milner’s entire selection of pre-made hats, and had then tried it on, hoping it would be too big for him, and probably just right for Sherlock.

Sherlock gave a sound that could have been either agreement or disbelief. 

“You found everything I requested?” he asked, still examining the hat. “In my hotel room, I mean?”

“Everything but the rats,” John answered. He stood where he was, a dozen feet away from Sherlock, watching him a he played with the hat. 

Sherlock looked up and gave him a fleeting smile, gone as soon as John noticed its existence. “I expect they’ve moved on to greener pastures,” he mused. He tossed the hat toward his toes and it landed on his casted foot. “So you found the grey coat?” he asked.

“If you’re wondering if I found the black dress, petticoats and corset along with it, then yes,” John ventured, taking a step or two toward Sherlock. 

“Actually - yes,” answered Sherlock. “I didn’t really need the coat.”

“You didn’t need the coat,” John repeated, staring at Sherlock Holmes like he’d sprouted a second head and a pair of wings. “You _wanted_ me to see those things?”

Sherlock gave him an enigmatic smile. “I wanted you to have an excuse for having opened the wardrobe,” he said.

“I wouldn’t necessarily have opened it,” John said. He kept his eyes on Sherlock as he moved over to the chair facing the sofa and lowered himself into it. 

“Come, John. Think.” Sherlock was wiggling his toes and making the hat bounce. He looked over at John expectantly.

“Think? Think of a reason I might have gone into your wardrobe for a peek if there was nothing in there you’d asked for and I’d found everything else on your list without opening it?”

Sherlock nodded encouragingly. John stared at him. Life with Sherlock Holmes was like nothing he had ever experienced, or even imagined. Since coming home this evening, he’d bounced from the rich, powerful hymn on the violin, to Sherlock deducing his entire day’s schedule, including the extra time spent in his hotel room, to his bold statement that John found him _intriguing_ to the coincidence with the hat.

And now this. Well, in for a penny.

“I suppose - I suppose I might have wanted to find out more about you. You’re staying at my house, after all, and I know only what you’ve told me about yourself. You could be lying. You could be a bank robber, or a swindler.”

“You know that Mike Stamford likes me, and trusts me,” Sherlock stated. “That was enough for you to treat me, and offer me lodging.”

“It was,” John agreed quickly. “It is - still.”

“It was enough for a stranger, a friend of a friend. I wouldn’t call us strangers any longer, John.”

“Hardly.” John laughed, trying to ease back into safer territory with a casual attitude. “I think we’ve learned a bit about each other this past week.”

“Eleven days,” Sherlock corrected. “Very nearly.”

“Right.” John looked away from the scrutiny of Sherlock’s eyes. “So - you thought I might want to have a look around to see if you’re what you claim to be, so you effectively gave me permission to root through your wardrobe. You knew I’d find the dress.”

“Disguise.” Sherlock plucked the hat off his foot and placed it on his head again. “You saw the false mustache. The old suit and shoes.”

“Alright. Disguise.” John’s left hand grasped the arm of his chair, fingers pressing hard against the wood. “You’re a detective - you have reason to blend in, to not be seen.”

“Exactly.”

“Only - why the corset?” John looked at Sherlock, puzzled. “You could certainly do it without - dress and petticoats and shawl and shoes. You’re thin enough already, and haven’t any flesh to speak of to push up.” He pressed his mouth into a line, but couldn’t quite keep the amusement from his eyes.

Sherlock steepled his hands in front of his face, then clasped them together and looked over at John. “When I am in disguise, I am not simply dressed as the person I’m portraying. I _am_ that person. Inside and out. The clothing is important, John. Even the corset and the stockings that no one save myself will ever see.”

 _I_ saw them, thought John, and wondered what they would look like _on_ Sherlock, dismissing the thought with embarrassment, and some difficulty.

“In the course of my adult life, in my various explorations and investigations, I’ve hidden inside a variety of disguises, including those that you saw, and a good many more. I’m a master of disguises, John, but not nearly as masterful as you.”

John’s fingers tightened on the arm of his chair.

“Soldier. Doctor. Husband. Rancher.” Sherlock paused until John looked at him. “I’m making you uncomfortable.”

“Say what you want to say,” John said, taking a breath of courage, relieved in a way that it was this man, and not someone like Mike Stamford, who had seen through him at last.

“You’ve made a move in the right direction, coming here,” Sherlock said. “You don’t live on the edge as acutely as you did in Afghanistan, but the scenery is new, the land is large and wild and untamed, and you fit here in a way you never did in England. You’re not ordinary, John. You don’t want to be settled, and safe, and comfortable. Stop pretending you want anything less than what you really want.”

John bristled. “I don’t want to put on a corset and dress and follow you around solving crimes,” he said. 

“Don’t you?” Sherlock’s gaze was locked on him, his clasped hands nearly touching his lips.

John stood. “Look - this is going nowhere. I’ve got a ranch to run and need some sleep or I’ll be dead on my feet tomorrow. I’m going to bed. Do you need any more help tonight?”

Sherlock stared at him a long moment, then shook his head. “No, but thank you. I’ll be fine. I’ve been working on a map for Mike and I’d like to finish it tonight and have him over tomorrow, if you can send word to him with one of the boys.”

John nodded. “Of course. You’ve made headway on the case, then?”

Sherlock nodded. “Some. I think I know the pattern now, anyway. We should be able to predict where they’ll hit next.”

“Good - really good. I’ll have one of the boys ride over to Mike’s tomorrow and ask him to come over.”

“I’d suggest a stake-out,” Sherlock added. 

John laughed. “You’re trying to tempt me,” he said.

“I _am_ tempting you,” Sherlock said. 

He moved as he spoke, turning and reversing his joined hands into a languid, over-the-head stretch. His shirt rode up to expose a sliver of belly, a mere suggestion of flesh, and he turned his head, stretching his neck as he pressed the side of his head against his arm.  
John backed away.

“Goodnight,” he said, nodding to Sherlock.

“Goodnight, John,” returned Sherlock, yawning.

John closed his bedroom door and dropped onto his bed, pulling off his boots and letting them drop to the floor. He didn’t bother to light a lamp as he sat there, breathing hard, refusing to take himself in hand and end his misery.

He fell asleep unsatisfied, and did not sleep well.

ooOoo

It was the same dream, but with new terrors.

In the dream, blood was seeping through the uniform, and his hands were on Ben’s chest, but they were weak and ineffective, and they were covered with blood, and Ben’s eyes were open, his hand grasping John’s wrist, trying to pull his hand away. There was sand, and the sound of guns firing, and it was hot, and Ben was gasping, saying his name, _John, John, please, help me, John…._ And he looked up from Ben’s beautiful face to see the enemy, and it was Mary, in her wedding dress, gun held in both her hands, her veil-covered face hard-edged as she pulled the trigger and smiled as the bullet hit him, drove him backward until he fell beside Ben, and couldn’t move his arm, and couldn’t reach him across the desert sand. The hand on his wrist tightened, pulled, touched his face as he screamed.

“John! John - you’re dreaming. John!”

Something clattered to floor and a weight settled beside him. He rolled, making contact at last, holding on with overwhelming relief.

“John, wake up. John - you’re having a nightmare.” 

There was a hand on his shoulder, and it gripped him tightly, and moved to his back as he buried his head in a hard thigh and clutched at the dying soldier and sobbed.

Awareness came slowly, the dead certainty that this was real ebbing with returning consciousness. 

_Not real. Not real,_ his mind said even as his arms clung to the very real body beneath his head. 

The fabric was soft on the leg, flannel-soft, and clean, not rough with the sand that could never be shaken out, that imbued everything - clothing and lips and eyes and skin and hair. John breathed in through his nose, face buried still, and willed his heart to stop racing, willed his eyes to dry.

Wanted his fingers to obey him, to unclench, to release the fabric they’d fisted.

“Sorry - sorry,” he breathed, because he knew he should be sorry, but didn’t know for what, exactly. 

There was a hand at the nape of his neck now, squeezing gently, another rubbing circles between his shoulder blades.

He inhaled, seeking his bearings.

Bed. His bed.

“John? Should I make tea?” The hand on his back moved down to cover one of his hands. Gently, very gently, the fingers rubbed against his wrist until his hand relaxed and released the fabric. 

Sherlock.

“No.” John took a deep breath, then rolled off Sherlock.

“God, Sherlock. I’m sorry.” He blew out another breath and covered his eyes with the back of one hand. There was a gentle glow at the door - the firelight from the parlour, or perhaps a lamp still lit there.

“It’s fine. I was still awake. Are you sure you don’t want tea?”

John huffed again, trying desperately to forget the images from the dream. He shook his head.

“Do you have nightmares often?” Sherlock asked. He shifted his hips on the bed, and John forced himself to sit up.

“Sherlock - your leg. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

John dropped back on the bed. “Right.”

“The nightmares?” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, inviting.

“Nightmare. Always the same one - more or less.” He paused, thinking of his pistol-wielding, wedding-garbed dream wife. “The war - Battle of Maiwand.”

“Maiwand.” John couldn’t tell if Sherlock knew of the battle or not, though his pronunciation was impeccable. “I’m sure it was horrible,” he said. 

“It was.” The wounded. The dead. “It’s where I was wounded - shot.” His hand automatically moved to his scarred shoulder. “Jezail musket.” Talking about the facts - the name of the battle, the type of weapon that had inflicted the damage to his person - was helping ground him again.

“You’ve been having this dream for ten years?”

“God yes,” John answered. Ten years? Had it really been ten years already?

“And while you were married? While you shared a bed with your wife?”

“Yes. Sometimes.” John rubbed his eyes. He’d had that dream dozens of times while he was married, sleeping with Mary warm weight snuggled up against him, grounding him in the here and now.

“John.” Sherlock turned with some difficulty, grimacing a bit. “What did Mary think when you called out for Hope?”

He had lied to Mary. Lied to her from the first time he had one of his nightmares after they were married. The first time she asked, as she comforted him, holding him tightly, soothing his fears. _Who’s Hope, John? Tell me about her._

John dropped his arm onto his eyes again. Why was he admitting to Sherlock what he never even told Mary? It would have been easy to explain - for her to accept. To tell her about the man he had been trying to save when the bullet ripped through his own body.

“She thought Hope was a woman I loved before her, a previous fiancé who died before our wedding.”

The room was quiet, the silence broken only by the sound of John’s breathing, of the bed creaking as Sherlock shifted on it. It stretched on for so long that John thought he might fall asleep again, and wondered why Sherlock was still sitting there beside him, quiet and motionless.

“I’ll be fine now,” John said at last. “You should go to bed.”

“I dropped my crutches,” Sherlock replied. “When I sat down - you were thrashing, crying out.”

“I’m sorry - let me get them for you.” John began to sit up, but Sherlock stopped him with an outstretched arm.

“Not yet,” he said. He scooted his hips back until he could maneuver his cast up onto the bed. He settled in against the headboard, then continued in a voice that seemed to blend in with the dim light and the wind blowing through the cottonwoods. He rested a hand lightly on John’s arm. “I am the last person in the world who should be asking this of you at this time, John, but I think – I think it will help you to talk about him.”

_TBC_


	7. All About Benjamin Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tells Sherlock about Ben Hope, and Sherlock mentions a youthful indiscretion.

Chapter 7

In the end, John was glad he hadn’t denied it.

That he hadn’t claimed that Hope was anything or anyone less or more than exactly who he’d been. Not a woman, not a fiancé. Not only an anonymous soldier, British or Indian or Afghan, bleeding out beneath him when the bullet had torn through his shoulder.

“Benjamin,” John had said at last, lying there quietly beside Sherlock. “Benjamin Hope. He was a field medic. I replaced a doctor who’s been invalided out. Ben was already there. He showed me how to survive there, in the camp, in the desert. He helped me settle in. He was smart - witty. Clever. He was always whittling away at something. He could fashion almost anything we needed out of spare parts. Kind. He’d do anything for you, for anyone, anything to make the injured smile. He gave them hope - and yes, I know. It went with the name but...it was more. He was from Cardiff. He smoked cigarettes relentlessly. He blew smoke rings. He held the cigarette between thumb and forefinger. The tip of his thumb was stained with nicotine.” Words were rolling off his tongue now. He spoke with his arm still slung over his eyes, words melding with the cool, quiet air, intimately aware of Sherlock propped up beside him.

“His eyes crinkled like mad at the corners when he smiled.” John’s own eyes crinkled with the memory. “He played the harmonica - he’d sit on the floor with his back against his bed, hunched over. He could play anything you could whistle, and most everything else too.

“He was immensely brave and he never thought anyone was a lost cause. He’d go bring the injured in even when the bullets were still flying if he thought there was any chance of saving them. He had a dimple on one cheek, and brown hair and eyes, and he loved birds. He learned their names in Dari, and could imitate their calls. He’d sing them for the children - we’d sometimes have the locals about the camp.

“He could work so quickly - could do all the minor surgical procedures himself with about half the schooling and a third the experience I had coming in. And I swear he could read my mind – he was the best surgical assistant I ever had. He was the only one who could get me to go on when I’d had enough - when I hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours or more. He’d lean in closer to me from across the table, or beside me, and say ‘Just one more after this one, John. Come on now, give another one of our boys a chance to go home to his mother. You have a mum back home, don’t you? A mum who wants to see your gorgeous face again? And if not for her, John, do it for me.’ And he didn’t care if I was treating an Irish boy, or an Indian, or even the enemy. They all had mothers, he said. And if they didn’t, even more’s the pity.”

And John knew there was no going back now - he’d as much as said it aloud to Sherlock, confirmed what Sherlock already - somehow - knew. That for John Watson, the flame of first love had burned for another man.

“We were friends first.” His elbow felt heavy. It slid down to the mattress and he rubbed his knuckles against the corner of his eyes where tears threatened.

Tears for Benjamin Hope, after all these dry-eyed years of not remembering, or feeling, or thinking.

“He taught me to play chess.”

Chess, sitting cross-legged on the floor, the old battered board between them. Acutely aware of the sounds in the silence - the wind outside, the quiet breathing of their sleeping comrades around them, the whisper of pieces pushed along the board, the barely voiced _Check_. The sometimes touch of fingers, light upon his own, as he reached to make a move, telling him to reconsider, to think it through. A min-war of civil players in this foreign land of incivility.

“He had trouble sleeping. He’d sit outside, smoking. I’d sit with him sometimes.” God how he remembered - could still feel - the press of muscled thigh against his own as they sat side-by-side on the earth. The smell of Benjamin, warm and earthy, familiar, like walking into your mum and dad’s place, years after you left it. 

He was quiet for a long time, breathing, thinking, remembering, and he felt as if he’d said it all, revealed his deepest secrets, yet he hadn’t really said anything at all. What was left to say, anyway? Tales of stolen moments, dangerous every one of them, holding hands in the blackest darkness of the darkest nights, pressing up against the other in passing, a first kiss, a stolen kiss, a last kiss.

“What happened?” Sherlock’s voice, quiet for so long, was unexpected, surprising. John was stretched out in the center of the bed, mere inches separating him from the other man. Sherlock pulled his good leg up, bending it at the knee. He rubbed his thigh distractedly, as if working out stiff muscles. “What happened to him, in the end?”

_He saved one too many, threw himself onto the field to retrieve one of our own before the firing stopped. He was shot in the leg, the arm, the chest. I went after him - I wasn’t supposed to. I disobeyed orders. I had my hands pressed against his chest, trying to make the bleeding stop, when a bullet ripped into my shoulder and I fell and I tried again but I couldn’t use my arm and I couldn’t make it stop make it stop make it stop…._

He rolled onto his side, facing away from Sherlock. Took a breath, and another.

“He died.”

Breathing. Wind in the cottonwoods. The smallest creak of the bed as Sherlock adjusted his leg again.

“How did he die, John?”

“Shot.”

Breathing. Wind in the trees. Rustle of fabric as Sherlock scratched the flesh of his leg just above his cast, never quite able to reach the itch, John knew. A coyote howled in the distance, mournful, courting the moon.

“You were there with him?” 

It was a question. John knew Sherlock was taking his time, deliberating, not rushing anything. Adding a question to each of John’s answers, drawing him out deliberately. Giving him time to think, to sort things out. John imagined Sherlock knew, because he guessed everything, or deduced it, and John had never told this story. Had never voiced the feelings or the words or those final distorted images imprinted on mind and heart and soul.

He’d moved on, gone home, found Mary, fell in love, married her, made a new life, and left Benjamin Hope dead and buried and gone.

“I went to see his mum,” John said now, remembering the bony embrace of the too-thin woman, her racking sobs, the photograph of Ben in his uniform, enshrined among flowers on the mantel. “In Cardiff. He was her youngest. Her only son.”

“She must have appreciated that,” Sherlock said. He surprised John then, laid his hand on John’s shoulder and squeezed, but only briefly, then his hand was gone again.

A comforting touch. A friend reaching out to another in pain.

Sometimes, since Mary died, since he came to Wyoming, John ached for a touch. 

“I brought her his harmonica. His whittling knife. His chess set. She gave the chess set back to me - said she knew I’d want it to remember him by. She told me that whenever I played, I’d think of him, and he’d want that, wouldn’t he? That he’d be sitting up in heaven, whispering over my shoulder.” He paused and shifted onto his back again. “I’ve never played again. Not once.”

“John.” The name hung there, in the air, and Sherlock let it sink away and melt into John’s skin before he spoke again. “You were with him. You tried to save him?”

“He was hit three times – in the leg, the arm and the chest. He’d gone out before it was safe, to try to bring one of our boys back in, and he went down with the kid in his arms. I went after him – I defied orders but I don’t think anything could have stopped me from trying. I ignored the boy he’d been trying to save – I didn’t even check to see if he had a pulse.”

Tears now. Real tears. Tears that he couldn’t quench. He was thankful for the dark, so very thankful for the still of night and wind in the trees and the sound of Sherlock’s measured, quiet breaths.

“…I let the soldier lie there and got both my hands on Ben’s chest and pressed and tried to slow the bleeding. He was conscious still, barely, enough to recognise me, I think, and for his eyes to soften and to give me a tired smile. And I don’t think I even had time to smile back. I wanted to tell him it would all be all right. A lie, but the kind of lie we were so accustomed to, but then – then I was hit.”

_And that’s the last thing Ben would have seen._

His hand went to his shoulder reflexively, and Sherlock made a noise – as if he’d opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He was surprised, perhaps, or perhaps not, and he let out a breath he’d been holding in.

John had too much momentum not to continue.

“I don’t remember much after that. I don’t even remember the pain until I was recovering in hospital. I know I tried to get back to him, but I couldn’t make my arm work, and one hand wasn’t enough. There was so much blood, and I knew it was too little, and too late, but Christ, I had to try. I’m told - I was told - that they had to pull me off his body. But I don’t remember any of it. I developed a fever, and was in hospital a long time. Our commander visited me himself and told me Ben was dead. He should have discharged me then and there for disobeying orders, but he told me I’d saved too many men to punish me more than I’d already punished myself. He was a good man - I’ve always thought he understood me more than I understood myself.

“One of the other men brought me Ben’s things - the things I took back to his mum. He knew Ben was my best friend - he saw what I did there at the end.”

John rolled onto his side again, but this time facing Sherlock. Sensing his movement in the dark, Sherlock once again laid a hand on his arm, and began to speak into the darkness.

“You were invalided out. You were sent back home, and you took a small room – in London, I think, and thought about things, and then found a doctor who was looking for help. No - he found you. Through your sister, or your mum. And they came to you, and convinced you to give it a try, despite your shoulder which by then was healed, no matter that it pained you when the weather was humid. A few years later - two? three? - not too soon but soon enough - you met Mary, and she fell in love with you, and it was a relief not to think about the war and Ben and how you hadn’t been able to save save him, and how the last thing he saw was you getting shot….”

“Stop.”

It was a weak request. Sherlock paused, and the hand on John’s shoulder stroked it, just a fraction, before the voice went on.

“And you liked her, and in time you grew to love her, and before too long you proposed and she said yes and you married her. A small wedding, family and a few friends. A cottage - not really in the country, but not too close to the city either. One with a garden. She’d have been practical - feminine, but not flowery. Strong - but not so independent that she didn’t need some caring for. She helped you with your practice - she’d have been hands on, just at your elbow, ready with the supplies you needed. I expect she went with you on emergency calls.”

“How do you…?”

The hand on John’s shoulder moved to his elbow, closed on it. 

“You loved her enough, John. The scales don’t have to balance. They seldom do, no matter how hard you try.”

He sighed then, and the hand on John’s elbow dropped back behind him, settling on John’s back and moving in slow circles.

It was comforting, and not at all strange, or unwelcome, or awkward. John was exhausted with the retelling of the story he’d never told, and until the moment Sherlock had voiced it, he’d not known why the gnawing guilt had continued to devour him, two years after Mary’s death.

“You have a story, too,” he said a few moments later.

“Boring. No blood, or acts of heroism, and no harmonica music under the Afghan sky,” Sherlock said, his words tinged with something that felt and sounded very much like regret. “My story is about family, and lineage, and expectations, and one youthful indiscretion that will never be forgiven.”

“Only one?” John let his right hand fall between his own body and Sherlock’s hip.

“One that they discovered,” Sherlock answered. “I was much more careful after that.”

“Did you love him?”

Sherlock didn’t answer at first. 

“You are presuming -”

“No more than you presumed about me.”

Sherlock sighed. His hand on John’s back fell away again, and he folded both of his hands in his lap in front of him. 

“No - you are presuming I am capable of love,” Sherlock finished.

“Hmm.” John didn’t pursue it. He was tired, emotionally drained. “I don’t think you did - love him, that is.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He unfolded his hands and began to rub again at his leg just above the cast, working his fingers down under it to rub his skin. 

“Itches.”

“I imagine it does,” John said. “Try not to think about it.”

“Try not to _think_ about it? _You_ don’t have a colony of ants crawling around between your flesh and a layer of plaster.”

“Hardly a colony. And if I thought there really were ants in there, I wouldn’t have you here in bed with me.”

“So I’d only have had to assure you I was vermin-free to get into your bed earlier?”

John laughed. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. It’s surreal.”

“I _am_ in your bed.”

“Which is also surreal.”

“And comfortable.”

“Settle in. I’ve no intention of crawling over you to fetch your crutches. I’m sure I can explain it to Mrs. Hudson if we oversleep. Something about you having an ant colony in your cast.”

He lay there, still on his side, still facing Sherlock, as Sherlock scooted down until he was on his back, head resting on two pillows.

“I hate having to sleep on my back,” he grumbled. “It’s...unnatural.”

He reached out a hand then, and took John’s in his, and laced their fingers together.

John smiled, then laid his free hand atop their joined ones.

“This, however, might be a bit more difficult to explain to Mrs. Hudson.”

“Mrs. Hudson might be more understanding than you think.”

He could have asked Sherlock to explain, but he was tired, and warm, and comfortable. He gave a noncommittal sound, and closed his eyes. It had been so long since he’d had this comfort, of sleeping beside someone, breathing in their scent, not feeling so alone when the night closed in around him.

He felt blissfully calm, and free - liberated from a burden that he’d been carrying for a decade. But there was still the matter of Sherlock, and his admitted indiscretion. 

“Your indiscretion - I haven’t forgotten,” John said into the silence. “I don’t think you loved him.”

Sherlock ran his thumb over the side of John’s hand.

“No. I didn’t,” he said at last. 

“But I think - I think he loved you.”

Sherlock didn’t respond for a long while. When he did, at last, he didn’t react to John’s statement.

“I’m quite good at chess. We’ll have a game tomorrow.”

“I haven’t played in ten years.”

“I know. But I believe you can read me well enough to be an adequate challenge.”

And all was still, save the wind outside in the cottonwoods, and the sound of quiet breathing,and the creak of the bed as John relaxed into sleep and settled, at last, against Sherlock’s solid side.


	8. A Day in the Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John starts and ends the day beside Sherlock - beginning as he means to go on.

Chapter 8

The next day wasn't quite as awkward as John imagined it would be.

He woke well before Sherlock, not much past his usual five fifteen, to find Sherlock lying on his back in nearly the same position he’d been in when John had fallen asleep the night before. His head was resting on two pillows, his casted leg stretched straight out before him, his good leg bent at the knee, but splayed sideways now in the slack of sleep. In the almost dark of early morning, he looked eerily peaceful. 

For his part, John woke with his arm slung over Sherlock’s chest, head nestled in the crook of his arm. He lay there with his eyes closed as consciousness returned, the events of the night before sharp and present. He knew exactly where he was, and who was sharing his bed. 

Had he been married still, had it been Mary lying sleeping at his side, he’d have wrapped his arm more tightly around her and snuggled in for another fifteen minutes of slumber, breathing in tandem with his sleeping wife. Or, perhaps, if he was restless, and the moment right, and it had been long enough, he’d press up against her back with his morning erection, rocking gently against her as he nuzzled her neck, whispering his desire until she turned and smiled sleepily at him, and let him kiss her, and lift her nightgown, gently caress her sweet, small breasts until she groaned her pleasure, make love to her in the half-light of morning.

Sherlock’s proximity did nothing to quell the desire that was with him when he awoke, a desire that only grew stronger with those far-away memories. Memories that were sweet, and gentle, and soft like feathers. Memories of making love to his wife who was adventurous and brave and fearless, who melded with him in so many aspects of their lives, but whose passion didn’t quite extend to the bedroom, where she preferred to be half asleep, languid, always on her back, always, always in bed.

He knew, is his heart of hearts, that the problem - if problem it was - wasn’t only Mary’s lack of interest. He shouldn’t have expected that his wife would like to be taken against a wall, or from behind, or to swallow him down while he fisted her hair. If she wanted gentle kisses, to look at his face when they made love, to caress his shoulders and not his arse, if she avoided his scar when she touched his chest, he still called himself lucky. Because they loved each other, and they _liked_ each other, and wanted life to take them to distant, exciting, far-away places together.

“If you’re planning to get out of bed, I could use the chamber pot.”

Sherlock’s voice surprised him from his musing when it rumbled quietly beside him, low and sleepy. He’d thought the other man was still sleeping, but a full bladder would certainly explain him being awake so early.

“And if I’m not?” John asked.

“I could still use it.”

John rolled onto his back and sat up, then surveyed the situation. There was nothing for it - he’d have to crawl over Sherlock, or crawl out the end of the bed and over the footboard. Crawling over Sherlock seemed the easier, if potentially more embarrassing alternative.

“I’ll keep my eyes closed,” Sherlock said as John knelt beside him and prepared to hoist his leg over Sherlock’s stomach, avoiding the injured and casted leg.

“You’re not missing anything,” John muttered.

But when John had one knee on each side of Sherlock’s waist and was just starting to carefully roll to the far side of the bed, Sherlock grabbed his wrist.

And opened his eyes.

“Never trust a man with a broken leg, a full bladder and a raging erection,” he said.

John’s face twitched as he suppressed a smile.

“I don’t have a broken leg,” he said.

Sherlock smiled. “Good morning, John,” he said softly.

John’s eyes softened. “Good morning, Sherlock.”

They stared at each other, John still straddling Sherlock, Sherlock’s thumb moving slowly over his wrist. 

“You do know I’m sitting right on your bladder,” John said, shifting his weight and tugging his arm against Sherlock’s grasp.

“That doesn’t help,” Sherlock said. He pulled at John’s wrist and murmured “Come here.”

He wanted to roll out of bed and step quickly away from it, make a show of gathering up Sherlock’s crutches before he fetched the chamber pot and left the room to give him some privacy. He wanted to pretend nothing had happened, that confessions belonged to the dark of night, that this particular morning was like every other morning, that life would continue just exactly as it had before. He wanted to get out of bed and put on his shirt and his boots, walk outside and check on the horses, breathe the clear blue morning air, let it fill his lungs and chase this dangerous, reckless hope from his head.

He wanted to stay exactly where he was, with legs splayed wide, knees on the bed on either side of Sherlock Holmes, stiff erection straining against the fabric of his long johns. He wanted to be here, half-sitting on Sherlock, one wrist caught in Sherlock’s hand, the other hand threaded with Sherlock’s, finger locked with finger, palm against palm.

His mouth opened slightly and he exhaled slowly as he felt Sherlock’s hardness against his buttocks. 

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and pressed up against him. Very deliberately, he let go of John’s wrist, stopped trying to pull him forward.

Except with his eyes. Except with his beautiful, soulful eyes.

It was John’s decision. John’s move. 

John lifted his right hand and brushed sleep-crushed curls back from Sherlock’s face. His heart - his heart was beating like a galloping horse, thrumming against his chest.

His hand caught in Sherlock’s curls. He ran it through, out and back again, staring at Sherlock’s mouth.

He wanted to kiss that mouth. Wanted to feel the morning-rough face against his. Wanted to so very, very much. So much he could taste it already, thought he might come from just imagining the scent of sweat-damp skin, the cool slide of tongue, the feel of teeth on his neck, his earlobe, his jaw.

Wanted it enough, at last, to bend forward, one hand still in Sherlock’s hair, the other dropping to the pillow under Sherlock’s head. 

“Good morning,” John breathed, and he pressed his lips against Sherlock’s, kissed him gently for a single heartbeat, then let his body give way to hunger, moaning as Sherlock rocked up against him and opened his mouth to John.

The kiss had all the flavor of a stolen kiss in an Afghan desert, the desperation of a man too long untouched. Sherlock knew this - he _had_ to know this - for his hands came up to cup John’s face, to thread through his hair. He kissed the corner of John’s mouth, ran tongue and teeth and lips down his stubbled jaw and fastened on his ear, laving the lobe, then working back to his mouth again, slowing down, drawing it out.

Sherlock’s mouth was exquisite, and he knew how to kiss, and he knew exactly what John liked, and better still, what John needed.

He held John’s face in his hands, ran a thumb over his eyebrow, drew up his knee and pressed the top of his thigh against John’s arse and back. 

“I want to suck you tonight,” he said, looking John in the eye, speaking softly still, though there was no one to hear them. “I want you to kneel over my face and feed me your cock. I want to clutch your arse while you straddle me. And after I swallow you, I want you to lie down beside me and tell me about what you’re going to do to me after you take this dreadful cast off my leg, and even better, what you’re going to do to me while it’s still on.”

John turned his head into Sherlock’s hand, kissed his palm. He dropped one hand behind him, reaching for Sherlock’s erection pressing against him, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist again and pulled it around. He moved his head on the pillow, side to side, slowly, denying him.

“Think about it today. Decide if this is what you really want.” He entwined his fingers with John’s as John opened his mouth to answer, and shook his head again. “Get out on your horse and think about it, John. It’s not a road many dare to tread - not with another man, and especially not with me.”

“I know what I’m doing,” John answered. “I’m not exactly a child.”

Sherlock smiled. “No, you’re not. Nor am I, no matter how I may act.” He pushed lightly at John’s side until John climbed off of him and out of bed, adjusting himself and frowning at Sherlock.

“We have an hour until Mrs. Hudson gets here.” 

“Why rush things?” answered Sherlock.

A slow smile crept over John’s face. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted in response. John took a step or two backward.

“I know my answer,” he said.

“Spend the day with your boys, with Mike and his crew. Think about how you’ll fit in here if word gets out, John. If you had to choose, John - if you _had_ to - would it be this ranch, or me? Begin as you mean to go on.”

John’s gaze narrowed. He stared at Sherlock a long moment, then nodded. He fetched the chamber pot, and slid it over beside the bed within Sherlock’s easy reach, then squeezed Sherlock’s hand, letting his fingers linger.

“I’ll give it today, then. I’ve plenty to keep me occupied outside.” He left the room without another word, fetched his shirt and shoes, and went outside. He was still sitting on the porch stairs, staring at the hills before him, when the sun came up behind him.

ooOoo

When John rode back to the house at noontime for lunch, he was no closer to changing his mind about Sherlock than he’d been when he left that morning.

There was something - something about the other man that appealed to him in all the important ways. He found him interesting, intriguing, intelligent and entirely appealing. Sherlock saw through John in a way no one else ever had - not even Benjamin. He had the most interesting eyes, the most beautiful voice, the most elegant hands. He was demanding - yes - but didn’t a man have a right to be demanding about his care and well-being? 

But above everything else, he wanted John. Wanted him in a consuming way. In a _deliberate_ way. He was intrigued by John – John could see it in his eyes. Impressed with him, aroused by him.  


He could see Sherlock sitting on the front porch now as he approached the house from the northwest. He wasn’t alone. Mike was there with him, his distinctive white horse tied up to the porch rail.

John rode up on Juliet, slowing to a gentle walk as he neared the house. 

Mike stood, and John dismounted, slipping down from the tall horse gracefully, patting her flank as he turned. He pulled the kerchief from his face.

Behind Mike, Sherlock wetted his lips. John looked quickly to the ground.

“John - Sherlock’s all but broken the case.” Mike’s voice rose in excitement and he slapped John on the back in delight. “He thinks they’ll hit the Harrell’s ranch in the next day or two.”

John looked up at Sherlock, frowning.

“Nice of you to share this with me,” he said with a forced smile.

Sherlock studied him a moment, frowning. “I’d have shared it with you had there been anything to share this morning,” he said. “You left, I went to work on the data and soil samples you brought back, and fit it together just a few hours ago. Mrs. Hudson was nice enough to send one of the boys over for Mike.”

“We know they’re always hitting remote locations, but we didn’t look at it like Sherlock is - he mapped it from a bird’s eye view, and sketched in property boundaries and terrain, as well as all the roads and trails. If there’s any method to this crime - and there certainly appears to be - we’ve got to put a watch on the Harrell place starting tonight. You’re with me, right, John? We could really use someone with your steady hand and solid aim.”

“Of course.” John couldn’t help but glance at Sherlock, Sherlock who had broken this case open, who had made this happen. Sherlock who had made promises, _suggestions_ this very morning. Suggestions that John had been thinking about all bloody morning as he rode the fenceline, looking for breaches, checking for anything unusual, thinking about Sherlock’s seductive mind, his sinful voice, his kissable mouth, when he should have had his mind on business.

Sherlock met his gaze, but his eyes revealed nothing.

“We’ll meet at my place after supper,” Mike continued. 

John nodded and turned back to Sherlock. “You think it will be tonight, then.”

Mike glanced at Sherlock then back again at John. “He said as early as tonight - could be tomorrow or the next day.”

“He thinks it will be tonight,” John stated. “Better chance tonight than later, right?” His voice rose on the last word. Mike looked back at Sherlock again, intrigued.

“Actually, yes,” Sherlock answered. “Quarter moon tonight, and it’s waxing. They’ll want light but not too much of it.”

John turned abruptly to Mike. “Stay for lunch, Mike. Sherlock probably knows more he hasn’t told us yet - might help us be prepared for what we’ll find when we set up our ambush.”

Sherlock was using his crutches to pull himself out of his chair.

“I’d like to be there myself. John - perhaps now is the time to cut down the cast to below the knee.”

John turned to him, mouth agape.

“You’re joking, right? You’re not actually contemplating getting on a _horse_?”

“Actually - no. I’m not joking. With a shorter cast, I could easily mount….”

Mike was grinning.

“You could get _on_ the horse - maybe. For someone who’s so bloody _brilliant_ , you’ve forgotten something important. How the hell do you think you’d get _off_?”

Mike’s grin turned into a full-throated laugh.

“He’s an idiot, Mike,” John said, just barely covering his smile as he turned back to his friend. “A genius and an idiot. Where the hell did you find him, anyway?”

“I thought I told you - loitering about town,” Mike answered. 

“I was hardly loitering,” said Sherlock.

“No, you were blending in in your brand new denims and boots and hat. You looked like you’d just stepped off the train from San Francisco.”

“Actually – I had.”

John shook his head and Mike laughed.

At the very least, the tension was broken.

ooOoo

“I can make it - don’t worry - get back home to your family.” John looked up at Mike and rubbed distractedly at his face.

“I’m not just leaving you here, John. Someone’s got to patch you up. You’ve left yourself for last - shit, you even doctored up the rustlers.”

“Not all of them,” John said. They’d left two dead in the dust, and had captured two more. Another two had escaped on horseback.

“Well, there’s no use bandaging up dead men. Now - who’s going to take care of you?”

“John - I heard shots.”

John limped to a halt, peering ahead through the near dark. Sherlock was standing at the edge of the porch, the moon behind him showing him only in profile. Sherlock - outside at half past forever in the middle of the bloody, cold, night - was leaning against the porch railing, wrapped in a quilt. There was a haze of smoke in the air above him, and he held his pipe in his hands.

John limped forward and climbed the three stairs, while Mike, still on horseback, pulled up around the front of the porch. John dropped into a chair. The relief, the comfort, were nearly more than he could bear. Sherlock, holding his crutches together in one hand, hopped forward to study him in the pale moonlight. “It’s not as bad as it looks, Sherlock,” John said. He turned to Mike. “Thanks for helping me put up Juliet,” he said.

“Glad to be of help,” Mike replied. “It’s the least I could do.”

John looked worried. “You sure you’re alright? That eye doesn’t look good.”

The ambush had been successful enough, but they hadn’t counted on the rustlers having slipped inside the Harrell ranch before dusk, and having had time and opportunity to cut off a hundred head of cattle and move them. Instead of catching them breaking in, Mike and his group caught them leaving. The spooked cattle had caused a great deal of damage and chaos.

“Eye’s fine. Gretta’ll patch it up for me later.” He used his kerchief to wipe some blood away, wincing as he did so, then turned toward Sherlock. “Sherlock - thank you again. You’re even better than you claimed to be. You could stick around, you know. Keep our doctor company up here ‘til one of you decides to settle down.”

“I’m not the settling down kind.”

Mike shrugged and went on. “There were six of them, just like you said,” he told Sherlock. “Two dead, two captured, two escaped.”

“Good.” Sherlock shifted his weight, peering up at Mike. “John’s right, though, Mike. You look like hell.”

Mike laughed. “I look better than your friend here.” He nodded at John and nudged his horse. “I’m off then. We’ll catch up tomorrow, John. I don’t know if the sheriff will want your statement - but I’ll be heading into town in the morning.”

He took off for home, and they watched him go. As soon as he disappeared from sight, Sherlock turned his full attention to John.

“That cut on your face is deep,” he said without further preamble. “You’ll need to stitch it up.”

John shrugged tiredly. “Is it still bleeding?” He touched his lip and sighed. “It is.” He bent to pull off his boots, dropping each unceremoniously onto the porch, then unbuckled his chaps and dropped his head back. “You know,” he said quietly, “this isn’t exactly how I thought I’d be spending my night after our conversation this morning.”

Sherlock fixed him with a level gaze. “Begin as you mean to go on, John,” he said. He spoke quietly, but the words seemed to echo in the stillness.

“You heard Mike just now,” John said. “Tacit approval from the great one himself for us to keep each other company.” He rolled his head to the side, meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “Do you really think he cares what we get up to behind closed doors when he has a doctor and a genius on retainer?”

Sherlock looked out into the darkness after Mike. A curious smile curled the corner of his mouth. After a time, he turned back to John.

“You do realise that the moustache has to go?” he said.

John touched his face again. The riding crop wielded by one of the rustlers had lashed across his face, cutting his lip open. He’d definitely have to shave it off to clean it and stitch it. He stood with a groan, then dropped his chaps across the chair he’d just vacated. 

“Just to be clear, I’m not shaving for you,” he said tiredly.

“Of course not. I’ll put the kettle on,” Sherlock said. “I’ve got a fire going inside already. You’ll need hot water to clean up.”

“And tea,” John added. 

“How domestic,” Sherlock quipped. He walked slowly to the door, using his crutches properly this time, and John followed him inside.

“Like cleaning and sewing,” John replied. “Both of which you’re about to do. You don’t really think I can stitch up my own lip, do you?”

“Of course I do,” Sherlock replied. He’d managed to make it to the fireplace, and was awkwardly leaning in to hang the iron kettle on the hook. “But I’m certainly not afraid to try - I imagine it would be a useful skill to have. You don’t require straight seams or even stitches, do you?”

John hung his hat on the hook near the door then took off his coat and dropped it on a chair. He left Sherlock in the parlour, settling gratefully on the sofa, and went to fetch the supplies. Clean towels, soap, scissors, his razor and shaving mug, medical kit with needle and suturing thread, ointments and bandages. He hoped sutures wouldn’t be needed, but had an idea this was no mere split lip. It hurt like hell still, and the rag he’d been using to staunch the bleeding was already blood-soaked. He left everything on the table, then went back to the kitchen for tea and mugs, and grabbed the bottle of whiskey too. Sherlock had left a lamp lit in the parlour, but John brought another in from the kitchen for the job and placed it on the table with the supplies.

He settled beside Sherlock on the sofa then, sitting close enough to lean into him, and poured them both a measure of whiskey. They clinked their mugs together and toasted to the near demise of the rustling ring. John’s mouth stretched painfully to accommodate the mug, but the whiskey burned pleasantly, and John had half a mind to fall asleep curled up on the sofa, head in Sherlock’s lap, morning promises and bleeding lip be damned.

Mary had rested like that sometimes, especially near the end, when she was pregnant and ill, her head in his lap, body curled up for warmth, despite the quilts covering her.

He didn’t want to think of Mary right now.

He finally struggled up off the sofa to fetch the kettle, and soaked a rag with hot water, fanning it in the air to cool it so that it didn’t burn. He laid it across his lip, dropping his head back with a long sigh.

“How’s your eyesight?” John asked a few moments later, voice sleepy. 

“My eyesight is perfect. Are you wondering whether you can trust me with sharp objects around your face?”

Sherlock had leaned in, and was using the rag on John’s face to gently clean the wound.

“I’ve never claimed to be a proper caregiver,” he said as he worked. 

“You’re doing fine,” John said. “How long is the cut?”

“An inch that should be stitched, perhaps. Deepest nearest the corner of your mouth. The lash burned all the way across your cheek, though.”

“Hurt like hell.”

“Still does, I imagine.”

“It’s not so bad now, actually.”

“Good. Close your eyes.”

Sherlock worked silently, first with scissors to trim the moustache as short as possible, then with the razor, slowly but with a sure and steady hand.

“You look like a different man,” Sherlock said, washing the cut and abrasion again.

“It’ll grow back,” John said, opening an eye to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock hummed noncommittally, smiling slightly. “Perhaps.”

“I’d best look at it and decide if we need to suture it,” John said.

“We do,” Sherlock answered for him. “It’s too close to your lip to bandage well. It will break open every time you talk or eat, and kissing and other forms of oral pleasure would be completely off-limits.”

John opened his other eye. “Unacceptable.”

“So are you ready?”

“You really want to do this, don’t you?” asked John, managing a smile.

“Of course. I may never have another chance. Or tutelage from someone of your skill level. I imagine I need to pierce the dermis and the subdermis, working as closely to the wound edges as practical. Nerve endings are already damaged there, so numbness should already be present. You’ll have to show me how to tie off each suture - you can practice on me if you’d like - I’ll sterilise a knife….”

Sherlock should have been a surgeon. The sutures were neat and tight and small, perfectly aligned and tied. The pain was present but bearable. John studied the sutured wound in his dressing mirror, and stared at himself for a long while, seeing a John Watson from another era, long ago, a clean-shaven man, younger than his years, but boyish no longer, even without the moustache that had for so long been part of his being.

He glanced at his bed in the mirror. What exactly had Sherlock said to him this morning, as John had tried to climb over him to get out of bed? 

_I want you to kneel over my face and feed me your cock. I want to clutch your arse while you straddle me._

Another glance, at his door this time, and he wasn’t surprised at all to find Sherlock standing there, watching him staring into the mirror.

“The offer still stands,” Sherlock said. “I’m not nearly as tired as you are.”

“How do you _do_ that?” John asked. He touched his lip, then turned around to face Sherlock. The sight of him, even moving awkwardly forward on his crutches, forced both his blood and his powers of reason to his groin. His prick twitched, beginning to swell at the mere _idea_ of Sherlock’s mouth around it.

“You’ve had a long day and a hard night. I can only imagine how you’d like to get rid of some of that stress.” Sherlock had stopped a few steps away, and was eying John now in the light from the lamp John had carried in and placed on the dresser. He lowered his voice. “I’d love to be able to sit you on the edge of the bed and kneel between your legs, unbutton your trousers and swallow you down until your prick hits the back of my throat.” He glanced down at his casted leg a moment, then back at John. “Did anyone ever do that for you, John? Did anyone ever kneel between your legs and swallow your prick until they could barely breathe with it filling their mouth and throat?”

They stared at each other. John shook his head, a quick jerk to the side.

“Pity.” Sherlock hobbled to the bed and sat on the edge, letting his crutches clatter to the floor. 

“Stop.” John strode quickly to the bed. “Stop or I’ll cut that cast right off you and push you to your knees and….”

Sherlock grinned and grabbed John’s wrist, pulling him into the vee of his legs.

“I love the way you smell,” he said, burying his head in John’s shoulder. “Like horses and sage and fresh air and sweat. I love your voice - I love your English accent when you’re sitting on your horse, chatting with Mike or the ranch hands. I love how you look mounted, with the hat and chaps and kerchief – one day I’d like to take you on your hands and knees on this bed – wearing nothing but your hat and chaps.”

John groaned and pressed in closer to Sherlock, running one hand over his shoulder and up into his hair. he fisted it, pulling Sherlock’s head back. “I really want to kiss you,” he said. He ran his fingers over Sherlock’s mouth, down his neck. “But I’ll settle for coming down your throat like you promised this morning.”

This was rich. Beautiful. Perfect. All the things he could say to Sherlock. Rough and low and crude and raw. Taking control, ceding control, fluid power games, equal footing. 

Sherlock’s hands settled on John’s arse, squeezing it, pulling him even more tightly against him, then pushing him away again as he pulled at the buttons on his trousers, unfastening them and working his hands inside.

John whimpered as long, lithe fingers stroked over his prick. How could he have gone this long without feeling another's touch? 

“It’s late, John,” Sherlock whispered as his hand closed over John’s prick and pulled him forward again. “Come to bed.”

John helped Sherlock stretch out, and quickly piled pillows under his head. He dropped his denims to the floor, and pulled off his shirt and socks. 

“Like this morning, only closer to my face,” Sherlock said, pulling John forward with arms around his hips and arse. “I’m fine - you won’t hurt me.”

John grunted as lips teased the head of his prick. He was quickly becoming a pool of liquid need, molten desire, every fibre of his being flooding to his groin as Sherlock sucked him in further. He fell forward, bracing his arms against the wall above Sherlock’s head. He could feel - he could feel Sherlock’s _tongue_ , laving his prick, his lips tight against his shaft. The tip of his erection was pressing into the back of Sherlock’s throat as Sherlock’s fingers dug into his arse, kneading the flesh as he sucked him. 

John’s eyes were open. Watching, in the dim, shadowy lamplight, watching his prick disappear into Sherlock’s mouth, watching as he pulled out a few inches, then pressed back in, panting, giving himself over - as he had never in his life before done - to the primal need to couple like this, rough and fast, to couple with another man.

His balls were already drawing up, tightening almost painfully.

“Sherlock - I’m close. I’m close….”

Sherlock responded by slipping a finger into his crease, teasing over his hole and pressing in just a fraction, humming around him and all but swallowing. 

His release was like a punch in the gut, flooding out of him along with brains and will and muscle power and every pure and holy thought he’d ever had. He fell forward, pressing his arse lower, sliding along Sherlock’s stomach. He could feel Sherlock jerking off against his arse, his hand moving rhythmically, cockhead pressing up against his crease with a sensation that left him wanting more even in his spent state. Beneath him, Sherlock tensed, hot spunk hit him on the small of his back, on his arse cheeks, then Sherlock relaxed and exhaled a long-held breath.

“I’ve wasted half my life,” John murmured later, stretched out languidly beside Sherlock. He was asleep within minutes, head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing evening out as his body gave in to the long, painful day and its blissfully satisfying end.

“And I’ve waited half of mine,” whispered Sherlock. He stared up into the strange flickering shadows on the lamp-lit ceiling, rubbing John’s shoulder, feeling truly at home for the first time in his life.


	9. The Ballad of Mrs. Hudson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John learn a thing or two about Mrs. Hudson, and quite a lot about themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably three more chapters after this one. Thanks so much for sticking with me!

Chapter 9

Time had never passed quite so quickly. Not for John, anyway, who was accustomed to hard work, and long days, and things not going quite his way.

“I’ve been working on Mrs. Hudson’s problem,” Sherlock told John one morning, a week and a half after the run-in with the rustlers.

“I didn’t know she had a problem,” John replied. He was presently engaged in the messy task of recasting Sherlock’s leg. The old cast had been cut off with some difficulty and not a little pain. The new cast came up to just below the knee, and would give Sherlock a great deal more mobility. 

“The problem of her husband’s death, her good name, and the loss of her home and savings. And the problem of the younger brother who inherited the estate after Mr. Hudson’s death and won’t even give her a small stipend to live on. I may be able to convince him to change his mind.” 

John, who had been reinforcing the bottom of the cast, looked up at Sherlock with interest.

“You can’t possibly have anything on Stanley Hudson? You didn’t know anything about them until you came here. I’d wager good money you’d never heard their names. It’s not like news of a small town crime in Wyoming made it to San Francisco.”

“It didn’t have to,” answered Sherlock. He stretched his toes and John frowned at him. 

“Be still. Tell me about Mrs. Hudson, then.”

“Simple deduction. She has shared her story with me. I asked a number of pointed questions, resulting in a rather thorough understanding of the motivations at play. Unfortunately, I must agree with the law. Her husband was certainly guilty. He killed a woman in cold blood, and was subsequently shot by the woman’s husband. But there are other factors at play. The sheriff was certainly interested in my theory, and stands behind my recommendation.”

“The sheriff?” John looked up again, his hands full of plaster. He didn’t ask what deductions Sherlock had made or how he had made them. He was becoming accustomed to Sherlock’s spot-on ability to solve mysteries and read minds. However, he didn’t recall Sherlock having had the opportunity to speak with the sheriff. 

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Sherlock said. “He came up here a few days ago after talking with you and Mike at Mike’s place.”

“I didn’t tell you that we met ….” John trailed off, then shook his head as he smoothed the last bits of plaster down. 

“You were planning to tell me, though,” Sherlock said. “As soon as this cast was on and there was no longer any danger of me trying to get on a horse while in a full leg cast.”

John looked down at his work again. The skin that had been covered by the first cast was pale and slightly puckered and seriously abraded where the top of the cast had rubbed against it. John wiped his hands on a wet cloth then reached for a jar of ointment and began rubbing it into the abrasions.

“What did Sheriff Morgan tell you?” John asked.

“No games, John,” said Sherlock. Their eyes met, and John finally gave a small nod. “You don’t get to decide what to tell me based on what you think I already know. Mike’s lent you a couple extra boys - you need the help with the cattle now that you have George and Billy working closer to the house, keeping an eye on things while you’re gone. At least one of them is on patrol at night, too, even when you’re inside.” He glanced at the kitchen door. They could hear Mrs. Hudson doing the breakfast dishes. He lowered his voice. “You light the lamp in my room every evening before dark - and turn it out at bedtime. You’re aware that people may be watching the house at night and would wonder why my window is never lit up.”

John continued rubbing the ointment into Sherlock’s leg, moving his hand to the underside of his thigh and massaging the already atrophied muscles. He kept his voice low. “I think you agree with me that our friends and neighbors should have no reason to think you don’t spend the nights in your own bed.”

Sherlock sighed. “I do agree with you. I only wish it didn’t have to be so.”

John’s hand stilled on Sherlock’s leg. “I’m afraid it will always be so,” he said.

“We’ll make the best of it.” Sherlock touched his wrist and John smiled. Touches like that one, stolen during the day when Mrs. Hudson was in the house or when the staff could walk in at any moment, were rare and welcome.

“I was planning to tell you about seeing the sheriff at Mike’s,” John said. “I didn’t want you feeling even more vulnerable trapped inside here, not able to protect yourself.”

“While you continue to ride the ranch, often alone.”

“I’m armed, Sherlock. And a quick shot.”

“Your gun won’t help you if you’re ambushed.”

John sighed. “I haven’t ridden alone since I found out, if you must know.”

Sherlock groaned as John began working he ointment in again, moving his hands up under his leg, massaging the hamstring in much the same way he’d done the night Sherlock had had the cramp. “I’ve had a look at the maps again - I’ve marked the most likely places where they would hole up.”

John’s hands had moved upward, very nearly skimming Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock swallowed a groan and shifted.

“Look Sherlock - there’s nothing concrete. The sheriff just came out to warn us to be on the lookout.”

“Apparently, this particular group of rustlers has a reputation,” Sherlock said, frowning.

“We’re not planning to go after them.” John wiped his hands off again and repositioned Sherlock’s leg on the towel-covered pillow. “Mike’s notified everyone. We have good descriptions of them now, and of their horses. They’d be foolish to stick around here when they’ve lost two-thirds of their group.”

“But you were worried enough about it to try to keep me in the dark,” said Sherlock.

John caught his gaze. Sherlock had an odd look on his face - as if he couldn’t decide if he was upset by this or pleased. 

John lowered his voice.

“I’m getting to know you a bit better,” he said. “You’re not exactly the type given to inaction - to sit around waiting for something to happen.” He glanced at the kitchen door again, then, satisfied that Mrs. Hudson was still up to her elbows in the dishes, leaned forward and spoke into Sherlock’s ear. “I want you out of that cast as soon as possible for very selfish reasons. I’m keeping a set of chaps in the bedroom so you can do what you promised as soon as you’re well again.”

Sherlock smiled. “I have even more plans now.”

“I bet you do.” 

They stared at each other, then John stood and backed away, busying himself with cleaning up the supplies as Mrs. Hudson bustled into the room.

“Look at you! You’ll need new trousers now - the ones you cut off will stop at mid-thigh. A bit indecent.” She stood regarding him, hands on her hips. “I’l just rip out the seams on a pair or two - that way I can sew them back up when the cast is off for good and you’ll not ruin anymore permanently.”

She hurried off to Sherlock’s room, and John watched as Sherlock edged forward on the sofa, attempting to bend his knee.

“Oww!” Sherlock’s hands clamped down on his knee and he looked at John, alarmed.

John grinned and shook his head. “It’s been in the same position for three weeks, Sherlock. It’s going to hurt to move it. Take it slowly. Bit by bit. And mind the cast - it will take some time to dry.”

Sherlock relaxed back against the sofa cushions and nodded, looking a bit put out.

“I’m going to clean up then work on the accounts. Can you take it easy here and let that thing dry?”

“Of course. I have my books, and a bit more thinking about Mrs. Hudson’s case.”

“Oh – so it’s a case now? Do I want to know about that?” John asked.

“It’s really not very intriguing. Mrs. Hudson’s husband shot a woman – Georgia Hunt – in the back while she was making up a bed in the hotel she and her husband owned - the hotel in town, in fact, where I was staying before I came here. It has new owners now, naturally.”

“Naturally,” repeated John with a smile.

“It was roundly and widely assumed that the woman was Carl Hudson’s mistress. The woman, however, was not Mr. Hudson’s mistress at all. She was, however, _Mrs._ Hudson’s mistress.”

“What?” John’s head whipped to the side but Mrs. Hudson was apparently still in Sherlock’s room. “And that’s not _intriguing_? Really? No? Yes?” He shook his head, lowering his voice to a hiss. “How the hell did you get her to tell you?”

Sherlock smiled and shook his head slowly. “She didn’t have to tell me, John. I deduced it. But that’s not important - is it? What’s important is that the younger brother inherited everything, leaving her penniless. If I am correct - and of course, I am - Stanley informed his brother of the affair, and Carl immediately set off to the hotel to confront the woman. Once Carl was in town and in the hotel, Stanley went to the woman’s home and informed her husband that Carl had just gone after his wife. The husband promptly set out and shot Carl. In essence, Stanley Hudson had his brother killed.”

“He’d have been hanged anyway,” John pointed out. 

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t think so. Mrs. Hudson was, in effect, committing adultery. Her husband could have claimed a crime of passion. He may easily have escaped with his life. Mrs. Hudson, though, would certainly have lost everything, including her reputation. But with his brother alive, incarcerated or not, Stanley Hudson would have gained nothing.”

“How did he know about Mrs. Hudson and this Georgia Hunt?”

“She was his mistress first. He was abusive to her - she turned to her friend Mrs. Hudson for comfort. The comfort turned into something … more.”

Mrs. Hudson returned then with two pair of Sherlock’s trousers. She took them out onto the porch where the light was better to work. John waited for the door to close before speaking again.

“So you’re planning to approach Stanley Hudson?”

“Why would I do that? The man is an unmitigated bastard, for sure, and likely quite dangerous. I’ll leave that to the sheriff. He’s clearly part of the cattle rustling ring. The map is conclusive - they couldn’t have hit all the ranches they’ve hit without passing through the heart of the Hudson ranch time after time.”

John’s mouth had fallen open. He closed it with effort. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re brilliant, you know. Have I ever told you that?”

“Once or twice,” answered Sherlock, trying not to look too pleased.

John paused then, and looked through the window onto the porch. They could hear Mrs. Hudson humming as she worked. “Only - what does she get from this? Mrs. Hudson, I mean?”

Sherlock stretched out, folding his hands behind his head. “Us,” he said. “She will live with her sister still, but take care of this home, and earn a good salary - you will be giving her a raise, of course. And John?” He beckoned John closer.

John took a step closer. “What?”

“She can be trusted. With _us_.”

John stared at Sherlock. Sherlock stared back steadily. 

“With us.”

“Yes.”

“You told her?” John felt his face heat up. He wasn’t ready for this - for Mrs. Hudson - for anyone - ever… 

“No. No. John - I wouldn’t tell anyone. Ever. Unless you wanted to as well.” He had leaned forward, looking concerned and no longer relaxed. He lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. “But John, Mrs. Hudson _knows_. She hasn’t said that she does, but she does. And she’s fine with it. _Fine._ She won’t tell a soul. We need her. She accepts it, she understands. She’s on our side.”

John blew out a slow breath. “Alright. She knows. No - she suspects. I can live with that.” He walked to the front door and opened it. “I’ll be in my room doing the ledgers, Mrs. Hudson,” he said. 

“Of course, Mr. Watson. I’ll take care of Mr. Holmes for you. Don’t worry about a thing.”

John turned back toward Sherlock, but he’d picked up his book and was reading it, though he had a blatantly pleased smile plastered on his face.

ooOoo

Sherlock’s new cast had been on more than a week, and he’d been at John’s house an entire month, when John finally gave in and took Sherlock into town.

He’d decided on the buggy, and it only had room for two, so Mrs. Hudson stayed home with George and Hank and Billy nearby. The buggy could be pulled by a single horse and was lighter and faster than the wagon - considerably faster. They could do the entire trip easily in a day, and close up his hotel room and bring the rest of Sherlock’s things back. 

Sherlock didn’t really need to go. John could pack up his things and have one of the hotel staff help load it, but Sherlock insisted on coming along.

They set off at daybreak, with John holding the reins and Sherlock’s cast propped up as best they could on an old quilt and a couple of saddle blankets.

“Do you know how long I’ve been in that house?” Sherlock asked as John guided them down the well-worn lane and out to the section line road. 

“Thirty days,” John answered. “Not that I’m counting.”

Sherlock grinned. “It’s practically summer already.”

John laughed. “It’s not yet May, Sherlock.”

“Like I said - practically summer.” He swiveled his head from side to side, watching the surroundings pass by. He was wearing one of the pairs of trousers that Mrs. Hudson had adjusted for his cast, and had put on one of his boots and his new hat. 

John liked him in that hat. Quite a bit. Quite a bit more than he’d been prepared for, in fact. He’d pulled the buggy up as close to the back door as possible so Sherlock didn’t have to hobble too far on his crutches, but he’d not been prepared to see him standing there beside George with that hat on his head, black curls trailing out from beneath it. 

He was half hard already when he got out of the buggy to help Sherlock get in. Sherlock glanced at his legs, and John knew he was missing the chaps. He didn’t need chaps for a long buggy ride into town, but would have worn them, he knew, had he thought about it. Would have put up with the additional weight and bulkiness for Sherlock.

George stowed the water jug and put in a request for some licorice from the General Store, and reminded him not to forget Mrs. Hudson’s washing powder. 

“We’re getting her some pretty handkerchiefs,” Sherlock told John as they started off. “And something sweet - perhaps toffee.”

“Bribing her now, are we?” John asked.

“Staying in her good graces is all,” said Sherlock.

Two hours into the trip, he was still in a good mood.

“I don’t think I realised how much you needed to get out,” John said as Sherlock finished delivering an interesting lesson regarding the rock formations they’d been passing. 

“Am I boring you?” Sherlock asked.

“Not at all. I’ve often wondered about those rocks.”

“Really?” Sherlock, whose eyes had been scanning the road, turned back to John.

John grinned. He knew Sherlock was a genius about soils, but he’d had no idea he’d have this boy-like exuberance about dust and dirt and rock outcroppings.

“How does your leg feel?” he asked, instead of answering Sherlock’s question.

“Fine. Same as always. Overly confined. Heavy. Hot. Itchy.”

“Just a few more weeks.”

“Two. You said six weeks.”

“I said six to eight. It certainly won’t hurt to keep it casted longer than six.”

“Six.”

John laughed again. “You’re watching the road pretty closely.”

Sherlock shrugged. “We discussed this. We can’t be complacent.”

“No one’s seen hide nor hair of the rustlers since that night,” John said. “Even Mike thinks they’ve moved on.”

“Perhaps.”

The topic didn’t seem to sober him, though. They rode on and made it into town well before midday. 

Sherlock had plenty to do. New trousers and denims, gifts for Mrs. Hudson, a visit to the bank, a look at the new newspaper, a stop at the post office to send a letter off to his brother. He insisted on helping John pack up his hotel room, even though it meant a slow trip up the narrow stairs on crutches.

“You are more than a bit fascinated with that disguise,” Sherlock said, as John stared at the corset he’d removed from the wardrobe before dropping it into Sherlock’s trunk. He picked up the garment and held it up. “You can borrow it sometime, if you’d like.”

John stared at him, his mouth dry. 

“I’d rather see you in it,” he said, surprised at himself for voicing his thought.

Sherlock met his eyes. “Would you, now?” he said thoughtfully. He folded the garment carefully then, and tucked it into a corner. 

“You can forget the rest of the outfit - ”

“Disguise,” Sherlock corrected, folding the petticoats and stacking them in.

“Disguise,” repeated John, softly. “Just the corset.”

“You never fail to surprise me, John Watson,” Sherlock said.

“It is really so different than you wanting to bugger me in nothing but chaps?” John asked. He was decidedly uncomfortable, his prick hard and needy, and he turned and faced the open wardrobe, reaching in for another armful of clothing.

“Come here.”

God, Sherlock’s voice could be so suggestive. So softly commanding. He’d never, never in his life, wanted so badly to bend to another’s will as he did with Sherlock. And yet, Sherlock didn’t make a single demand that compromised his integrity, that made him question who he was, or what he wanted. It was as if Sherlock could see inside John, inside his brain and his heart and his soul, pushing the right buttons, pulling the right triggers.

John turned, his arms empty.

Sherlock looked at him, then slowly looked to the floor in front of the bed where he was sitting.

John was on him in half a heartbeat, dropping to his knees, pulling apart the placket of Sherlock’s trousers, engulfing that beautiful prick while Sherlock caressed his hair and pressed into him, speaking in that voice that turned John inside out. 

“I love your mouth, John. I love your lips around my prick. I love watching you suck me, taking all of me, swallowing me. I love coming … coming down your throat. I - I … I love your hands on me arse, your fingers on me, in me….” 

The words died away, the sounds Sherlock made now were more incoherent, guttural. Legs tightened around John’s body, the hands in his hair gripped harder, the prick in his mouth pushed against the back of his throat, pulled out half way then pressed back in, spasming with his release.

John swallowed, then stood on shaky legs and collapsed on the bed beside Sherlock.

“Two weeks, and I’m going to take you in your chaps.”

Sherlock’s hand skitted down over John’s groin, on the outside of his demins. 

“No pants, no demins, just those leather chaps and your bare arse.”

His hand closed around John’s prick. “Nothing to restrain you, to contain you. Just me behind you, my prick inside you, my hands digging into your arse.” He squeezed rhythmically until John was moaning, then unfastened John’s demins and pulled out his erection. A few leisurely strokes, then “Perhaps I’ll wear the corset when I take you. Would you like that, John? Would you?”

John’s orgasm nearly ripped him apart. Sherlock caught his release in his hands, and John sagged into the bed, utterly spent.

“How did I get so lucky?” Sherlock mused, bending down to kiss him. “Did my brother have any idea what he was doing when he sent me to America?”

“I don’t think he knew about chaps,” John said with a tired smile.

Sherlock grinned, and kissed John again.

ooOoo

Their dalliance at the hotel cost them some time, and it was past three when they left town, buggy packed with the rest of Sherlock’s possessions and the supplies they’d picked up in town. Sherlock had treated them both to a shave and a haircut, and they’d had a drink at the saloon. Everyone seemed to have a story to tell about the rustlers, but no one had seen either of the two who’d escaped.

“Billy will have left with Mrs. Hudson by now,” John said as Sherlock watched the sun sink in the western sky. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“How about them ambushing us?” Sherlock said. 

“We can’t live in fear,” John said. “We’ve both got loaded guns. How good of a shot are you?”

“Adequate,” answered Sherlock. “It’s certainly not my best skill, but I can hold my own.”

John nodded. “I don’t expect anything will happen, but it’s always good to be prepared.”

It was well after sundown when they took the fork to the northeast to head up to John’s place. They were tired, and sore, and relieved that the stressful watch was over.

“Bed’s going to feel wonderful tonight,” Sherlock said, stretching his arms behind his head. “Can we unpack all this in the morning?”

“Of course. I’ll have the boys bring everything in. Especially Mrs. Hudson’s toffee.”

“You do realise that I bought the toffee for me too?”

John laughed. “And the lace handkerchiefs?”

Sherlock grinned.”Absolutely. I tuck them into the top of the corset for a little more padding.”

John grinned. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand, then leaned forward, frowning.

“Is someone shouting?” he asked.

“Someone’s there - on horseback.”

Sherlock quickly drew his revolver.

“Mr. Watson - please - Boss!”

It was George, galloping toward them.

“George - what is it?”

George stopped beside them. He was panting. “Thank God - can’t believe you’re here. It’s Mrs. Hudson - she’s been shot.”

Later, John wouldn’t remember how Sherlock made it into the house. He didn’t know who went for Mike. He only remembered stumbling out of the buggy and running through the back door into the kitchen. Plunging his hands in a bucket of water, soaping them up. Mrs. Hudson, lying on the kitchen floor. Blood everywhere. Bullet holes in the wall. A bullet hole in Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock - Sherlock scrubbing the table himself. Helping him strip off her shirt, cutting off her corset. Finding the entrance wound and exit, hoping the kidneys, the liver, were safe. Shouting orders to George, to whoever would listen. Boil water and fetch clean rags and the medical kit from his room. 

Benjamin Hope, bleeding out beneath his fingers.

_No!_

Not even stopping to think how this had happened. There’d be time for that later.

Sherlock sitting at her head, bathing her face, talking to her as she moaned in pain. George holding her hand, looking scared. Bleeding stopped. Wounds clean and sewn up. Mrs. Hudson moved to the sickbed, laudanum administered, Sherlock beside her, putting a wet rag to her lips. 

John was standing at the table, panting, fingers gripping the edges, trembling, when Mike came in through the parlour door. He stared at John.

“Billy?” he said, his face white.

“They got Billy after they shot Mrs. Hudson,” George said now. “But he got a shot off - I saw them ride off - one of them was hit for sure.”

“Where is he?” John pushed back from the table and staggered to the parlour. Billy lay in a heap on the floor beside the front door, blood pooled around his head.

“How long ago?” he asked, turning to George.

“Two hours maybe? You worked on Mrs. Hudson a long time, Boss. Hank and Eddie and a couple of the boys chased after them but they had a head start.”

John and Mike exchanged a glance.

“How did they get in?”

“I didn’t see them - neither of us did. Billy had just gone in to get Mrs. Hudson and take her home. I was in the barn saddling up the horse for him since you had the buggy, Boss. I heard the shots when I was leading the horse down. They took off and I yelled for help - some of the other boys rode up and I ran inside.” He looked at John rather desperately. “She was right there where she was when you came in. Crying. Moaning. Holding her side. There was so much blood. I grabbed some towels and didn’t move her - just tried to stop the bleeding. Then I thought I heard the buggy so I went out looking for you. Did I do it right? Is she going to live?”

“You did good, George. You did everything right.”

“But - Boss - Mrs. Hudson. Is she…?”

John tried to smile. “I don’t know. We’re going to do everything we can. Why don’t you put the horses up then fetch some boys to help us with Billy.”

“I need to alert the others, John.” Mike was standing beside him, guiding him to a chair. “You need to sit down. I’m going to stay and help get Billy taken care of, and I’ll send someone off to alert Mrs. Hudson’s sister. She’ll want to come be with her. Will she - will she make it through the night?”

John shook his head. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. I’m worried about internal bleeding and infection. She’s lost a lot of blood.”

“Is Sherlock in there with her?”

John nodded. “He’s probably destroyed all the progress with his leg. I have no idea how he got in from the buggy.”

“Let’s drag a mattress in there. One of you can stay in there with her tonight - sleep on the floor on the mattress.”

“Sleep?” John laughed.

Mike’s hand came down on John’s shoulder and squeezed. He lowered his voice respectfully. “You have some extra sheets? So we can take care of Billy?”

John squeezed his eyes shut. Mrs. Hudson took care of these things He had no idea where she kept them. 

“Right - I’ll look around.”

Mike and Jimmy wrapped up Billy’s body and took him to an empty bunkhouse, and John looked at the blood on the floor and was sick to his stomach. It couldn’t stay there - he had to deal with it. Someone had to. Rags and a bucket of water, rags rinsed in the water until it was blood red. Clean water, another round. His head ached, his hands ached. His heart ached. Billy was dead. Mrs. Hudson might join him. And there was more blood in the kitchen.

He threw the third pail of blood-stained water out off the porch and refilled it at the pump outside, then carried it into the kitchen. 

The kitchen looked like a warzone.

Battle room operating theater. 

Sand. Sand would have soaked up the blood.

John was on his hands and knees on the floor, cleaning up blood - Mrs. Hudson’s blood - wanting to drop down and sleep right here on the cold wood, when Hank stepped into the kitchen.

“Dad sent me down to help clean up,” he told John when John looked up at him.

The boy was sixteen. He was taking the rag from John’s hand. He looked sickened but stoic.

“Where’s your dad?” John managed, sprawling back against the wall.

“He went off with Mr. Stamford. Look - Mr. Watson - let me take care of the kitchen. Dad says we wouldn’t want Mrs. Hudson’s sister coming in the morning and seeing this.”

John stared at the young man. He nodded. “Right. Right.” He struggled to his feet, trying to ignore the rest of the mess. “Do what you can, Hank. Go outside and get some air if it gets to you.”

He forced himself to walk to the sickroom then. Sherlock was on a chair beside the small bed, holding Mrs. Hudson’s hand. A single lamp on the bedside table cast shadows across the quiet room.

“Hey.”

Sherlock looked over at him. He looked completely drained. Like a different man - careworn, angry. In pain - definitely in pain. His eyes traveled from John’s haggard face down over his stained clothing.

“They told me about Billy,” he said, eyes moving back to John’s face. “I’m sorry. We’ll get the bastards, John. I promise you, I’ll find them.”

“Someone will. We can’t leave Mrs. Hudson.”

He walked slowly over to the bed and leaned down to listen to her breathing. He placed a hand over her wrist and took her pulse, placed another gently on her forehead.

“Lungs are good at least,” he said. He shook his head. “Sherlock - she’s lost quite a bit of blood.”

“I know. I realise the outlook isn’t good. John, you did everything you could.”

John looked at him, let Sherlock take his hand and squeeze it. “Fifteen minutes…”

“Don’t do that to yourself. If we hadn’t lingered in my hotel room, we might have somewhere else. We took our time. We went to the barber, the saloon.”

John nodded jerkily. “So, how bad is your leg?”

Sherlock frowned. “I’m not sure. I used my crutches to get in - knocked it a bit getting out of the buggy, though.”

“I don’t see your crutches in here.”

Sherlock shook his head. “George helped me in - I must have dropped them when I got to the kitchen door.”

“Mike’s going to try to scare up some ice and send one of the boys over with it. You’re going to be in bed with that leg up and ice on it for a day.” He blew out a breath, smoothed Mrs. Hudson’s greying hair away from her face as Sherlock, surely, had done a dozen times already. He had grown so accustomed to her this past year. It was a new life for both of them here, and they’d been in this together. “No matter what happens.” He looked at the mattress on the floor, then back at Sherlock. The only thing he wanted to do right now was to collapse on that mattress, curl up in Sherlock’s arms, and sleep for a hundred years.

“You need to get cleaned up, John.”

John nodded. “I know. We’re going to have to take shifts. I don’t think either of us could make it all night.”

Sherlock looked at him critically. “Get cleaned up. Then come back and lie down. I’ll wake you to take the next watch when I’m tired.”

“You’re tired now,” John pointed out. He glanced at the kitchen door. He could hear Hank working out there. He must have found the scrub brush, because John could hear the distinctive sound of the bristles against the wooden floor. He bent and brushed a kiss on Sherlock’s lips. 

He started to straighten and pull away, but Sherlock’s hand caught the back of his head, and he kissed him back, more forcefully.

“It’s not our fault. You had the boys on patrol. You did all you could have done.”

John nodded. Sherlock was right. It wouldn’t help Mrs. Hudson to fall into anger and self-blame. If they’d gotten here any earlier, perhaps one of them would have the bullet instead of Mrs. Hudson. A lump formed in his throat. He couldn’t bear the thought.

“Go on - get cleaned up,” Sherlock said.

Fifteen minutes later, John was stretched out on the mattress. The wind was blowing outside, but he didn’t hear it. He didn’t hear the howl of the coyote, the soft hoot of the barn owls, the rustle of the cottonwoods. He heard Mrs. Hudson’s laboured breathing, her soft groans, the rustle of the sheets as she moved her arms and legs and head, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt.

And he heard the soft rumble of Sherlock’s voice, speaking to her, comforting her. The drip of water as he wetted the rag again to place on her forehead, another to place against her lips. The soft thrum of voices as Sherlock spoke to Hank, who’d come in to take his leave, Sherlock’s request for Hank to bring his violin.

He fell asleep to the soft lament of the violin, _Amazing Grace_ , the hymn Mrs. Hudson loved. He fell asleep knowing, with clear certainty and absolute conviction, that he loved Sherlock Holmes.

Condemning himself to a lifetime of stolen kisses, of clandestine love.

 _But worth it_ , he thought as the violin began another hymn, songs for Mrs. Hudson all. _But worth it._


	10. Learning to Love the Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson slowly recovers, and John and Sherlock must learn to love the moonlight.

Chapter 10

Sherlock let John sleep far too long, waking him, in the end, somewhere after three o’clock, because Mrs. Hudson was restless and couldn’t be comforted.

“Has she been taking water?” John asked, voice rough with sleep, as he knelt beside the bed, holding her wrist in his, feeling her pulse.

“She swallows some every time I put the rag to her mouth - and I’ve been doing that almost constantly,” Sherlock explained. He sounded tired, and worried. In pain himself. “Can she have something for the fever?”

John gave him a tired smile. “Of course she can - let me prep the quinine sulfate, then I’ll need you to prop up her head while I administer it.” He used his thumb to raise her eyelid and peer into her eye. “More laudanum too, I think. She’s got to be in a great deal of pain. Then we’ll need another lamp so I can check the dressings on her wounds.”

He went to the kitchen to prepare the medicines, and when he came back in, Sherlock had lit another lamp. He was bathing Mrs. Hudson’s face and neck and shoulders with a rag dipped in a bucket of water. It was an intimate gesture, and John could see the worry on his face – worry that they were fighting a losing battle. When John spoke, he kept his voice low.

“I’ll go fetch a bucket of clean water in a minute,” he said. “Here - get your arm behind her and lift her up a bit.”

“Medicine, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said soothingly as John spooned the first dose slowly into her mouth, stroking her throat to help sooth it down. Mrs. Hudson coughed.

“That will hurt,” John said softly. “Hold on - she still needs a couple more spoonfuls.”

He finished dosing her, and Sherlock used the rag to wipe the corners of her mouth, then settled her back on the pillows. John went to fetch clean water, taking a lamp with him. When he brought it back, Sherlock was still sitting on the bed, stroking Mrs. Hudson’s hair back from her face. 

John walked quietly up behind Sherlock, then pressesd up against his back, arms encircling his shoulders. He pressed his face into Sherlock’s neck, breathing in deeply. It felt amazing - simply amazing - to be showing this level of affection in a room where they weren’t technically alone.

“My turn now,” he said, tightening his grip around Sherlock.”You really need to sleep.”

Sherlock turned his head and brushed a kiss on John’s mouth.

“Her breathing is better now than it was.” He leaned back against John, but his eyes remained on Mrs. Hudson. “More regular - she’s not struggling for breath. I don’t think she’s worse over all.”

“She’s doing as well as can be expected,” John answered. “It’s too soon to know, Sherlock. But she’s holding her own. You’ve done all you can possibly do and more. Come on.”

He helped Sherlock over to the bed on the floor, got him settled and stripped of trousers and shirt and boot, then sat on the floor at his feet and examined the broken foot, frowning with worry at the swollen toes protruding from the cast. 

“You need to keep it elevated and stay off it as much as possible the next two or three days,” John said. “Does it hurt any more than usual?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Sherlock answered, groaning as John began massaging the calf of his other leg. “It aches. And it’s tight.”

“Swollen. You’d had too much activity already yesterday before we got back here and all hell broke loose. You should have been in bed the moment we got home, with that foot up on a tall stack of pillows.”

“Considering what Mrs. Hudson’s going through, I think I can put up with a swollen and achy leg.”

“Sherlock – listen to me.” He touched Sherlock’s knee, caressed his leg. “I need you well. _She_ needs you well. No relapses. As soon as her sister gets here tomorrow, you’re going to my room - we’ll need to give yours to Mrs. Turner. You’ve got to let that leg heal.” He stood, looked at Mrs. Hudson and watched her chest rise and fall several times, then turned back to Sherlock, cold resolve in his eyes. “Because if Mike and his boys don’t catch whoever did this, we’re going after them ourselves.”

ooOoo

“Mrs. Turner - no. Really. We can do for ourselves. Please -”

“When was the last time you ate, Mr. Watson?”

Mrs. Turner stood there, hands on her hips, staring him down. She was a small thing, a good bit shorter than her sister, no nonsense and determined and feisty. She’d arrived at nine o’clock along with Mike’s wife, Gretta, and had spent an hour with her sister before charging into the kitchen and tying on one of Mrs. Hudson’s aprons.

John stared at her, mouth open, trying to remember.

“You had lunch in town, I expect, and meant to have supper here when you returned. You need a good meal now, and a bath, then some sleep. I’m sure Mr. Holmes would scoot over and let you share the bed for a nap, or you could take the sofa if you’re not inclined to share.”

Mrs. Hudson was weak, in pain, and stable. The laudanum seemed to be keeping the edge off the pain. She’d spoken to John in the early hours of the morning, just past sunrise, while he sat beside her bed, trying not to nod off, as Sherlock slept restlessly behind him.

“Mr. Watson,” she’d mumbled. Her hand had reached out to him, unsteady and shaking, and he’d taken it, and squeezed it gently, then laid it carefully back at her side.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he’d said. “You’re fine. You’re going to be fine.”

“Don’t lie,” she’d mumbled, giving him a weak smile. “Billy?”

He’d tried. He’d really tried, giving her a smile that could not have reached his eyes.

“Fine.” He squeezed her hand. “You need to sleep.”

“And Sherlock?” she’d managed. She moved her head on her pillow, furrowing her brow. “He was here.”

“Sherlock’s sleeping. He’s fine – he was with you most of the night but he’s sleeping now. You’ve got him worried a bit.”

She’d given him a distrustful look, but had closed her eyes.

“I’ve got you worried a bit too. I can see it in your eyes.”

“A bit,” he’d conceded. “But you’re doing well. I’m giving you all I can for the pain. I know it hurts.”

She shook her head bravely.

"I like his music,” she’d said when John thought she had fallen asleep again. “Would you sing for me, Mr. Watson?”

And it didn’t matter if he had a good voice, or not, or if he wanted to sing or not. Mrs. Hudson wanted him to sing, so he’d sing.

“What would you like to hear?” he’d asked, folding her hand between his.

“Oh – an old one,” she’d said softly, her voice faltering. “Rock of Ages.” 

He’d heard Sherlock stir behind him as he sang, but he was still surprised, and moved nearly to tears, when the violin took up the melody midway through.

Mrs. Hudson had sighed - almost happily – when the accompaniment began, and her grip on his hand had tightened. 

And John had kept on singing. And when he’d sung all the verses, he’d wanted nothing more than to turn and crawl into bed with Sherlock and be done with this day that had barely begun.

“You didn’t tell me you could sing like that,” Sherlock had said as John’s voice died away, the strains of the violin with it. 

“I sang at church,” John said. “Mary played the organ.”

“Ah.” He could hear the telltale sounds of the violin being returned to its case.

“I prefer the violin,” John said. “I always have.”

He turned to face Sherlock, and they stared at each other a long while.

John sighed. He shook his head. “Get some sleep while you can, Sherlock.”

For it was growing light outside, and the boys would be up and about, and Mike was bringing Mrs. Turner, and there was still poor Billy to consider.

ooOoo

Mrs. Turner had her way, and made a late breakfast for John and Sherlock, then turned around and started on lunch for the ranch hands.

John had hardly seen Sherlock since he’d helped him into his bedroom just before Mike arrived. He’d made tea, and toast, and Sherlock had looked at him, an admonition on his lips, but hadn’t voiced it. What could he demand of John? That John sleep while Mrs. Hudson was so ill, while guests were on their way and a friend and employee lay dead in the bunkhouse? That John take it easy when the ranch couldn’t take a day off?

The chaos continued the entire day. 

Gretta Stamford and Mrs. Turner took over the care of Mrs. Hudson and of the food preparation for the entire household. John checked on his patient frequently, measuring her pulse and respiration, her temperature and her colour. He checked the wounds, and rebandaged them, administered the quinine sulfate and the laudanum. Gretta and Mrs. Turner, long-time residents of this area and well-versed in sickroom care, needed no instructions other than to come for him if they thought her condition changed in either direction, and to not let her fret in the least about him, or Sherlock, or any of her chores or duties, and to try to keep the news of Billy’s death under wraps for now.

When Mike’s boys brought the ice, John arranged a pack for Mrs. Hudson, to give her some comfort against the pain and swelling, and used the rest for Sherlock, arranging it atop the cast over the fracture point. Mike, who’d come earlier with his wife and Mrs. Turner, had settled in John’s room with Sherlock, and they were huddled over a map spread out over Sherlock’s lap. They were marking on the map, speaking in low voices, and John glanced at them, interested, but he had so much on his mind that he just sighed, making a note to ask Sherlock about it later.

“You look like you’re going to drop in place, John,” Sherlock said, behaving himself and keeping his foot in exactly the position John demanded.

“I’m tired,” John admitted. “But I’ll make it through today.”

Sherlock looked at him, trying to read him, John thought.

“Mrs. Hudson is the same,” John said, busying himself with checking the swelling in Sherlock’s toes, frowning when he could barely work a finger in between cast and calf. “The fever is no worse, but not gone. She’s taking liquids well. She’s no weaker than she was, and her colour is as good as can be expected.”

“She’d be dead without you,” Mike said. He looked like he hadn’t slept much either. “It’s a miracle that we’ve got you, John. We couldn’t have asked for anyone more suited for this area, and a good man all around besides.”

“He is rather remarkable,” said Sherlock, who’d been studying John closely as he worked. “I owe my own health and well-being to him. I’m certainly a better man for having spent this time with him, and have you to thank for bringing me here.”

“There you go,” Mike said, glancing over at John. “Looks like you have a sidekick if you want one - a fellow Englishman to keep you company and drink your tea.”

John smiled as he worked, wondering what Sherlock thought of becoming his sidekick instead of the other way around.

“He does have the most excellent tea,” Sherlock said. “And I’ve agreed to stay here through the summer at least. John has promised to show me the ins and outs of cattle ranching so I can decide if it’s a calling I wish to pursue.”

It was only with the greatest effort that John prevented himself from whipping his head up to stare at Sherlock, mouth agape. They hadn’t discussed the future in any terms at all much less agreed to summer together here. His heart seemed to swell in his chest as he allowed himself to slowly look at and meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“And in return, Sherlock has promised to show me San Francisco,” he said. “We’ll go in late autumn, after winter preparations are made here. I was hoping you’d be able to help me find a caretaker for the months I’m gone, Mike.”

“A fair exchange,” Mike said. He smiled at John. “Of course I can help find someone for a few months, John. As long as you promise you’re coming back.” He looked at Sherlock. “San Francisco has plenty of doctors and detectives and not nearly enough privacy. It’s a nice place to visit, but it’s always good to come back home to Wyoming.”

John looked down, studying Sherlock’s casted leg again. Mike didn’t know - couldn’t guess - but all the same, his statement unsettled him. He wanted to look up at Sherlock, to see how he reacted to John’s addition to the plans they’d never made, but didn’t dare.

“I’m actually going back to close up my house there,” Sherlock said. “After experiencing Wyoming, I couldn’t think of returning to San Francisco permanently.”

John had made his excuses then, and Mike had appeared in the kitchen a few minutes later while John was conferring with George. They’d taken Billy to Mike’s place, where he’d be buried in the community cemetery there. John had already written the difficult letter to Billy’s parents in Kansas City, and George would be sending Hank in to town in the morning to mail it. 

When George left to find Hank, Mrs. Turner put the kettle on and shooed them into the parlour. John sank onto the sofa, and Mike took the chair opposite.

“No word back from anyone?” John asked, rubbing his forehead.

“The Bishop boys think they’ve gone up into the mountains, on the old mine road past the Klein place,” Mike said. “Jimmy’s gone off to join them, with at least a dozen of the others. If they’re there, John, they won’t come out of this alive. No one has any intention of taking prisoners this time.”

“It’s almost supper time already,” John said. “It will be dark before too long.”

“They’re prepared,” Mike assured him. “We’ve got your place well-protected until this is over, John. Look - I didn’t mean to get you wrapped up in all of this. I know you didn’t come here to get saddled with a crippled housemate and criminals out for your blood.”

John shook his head. “It’s all part of it, Mike. Of living out here. And I’m glad to have met Sherlock. He’s no bother - Mrs. Hudson is quite taken with him already.”

“Just wait until he has his legs under him again,” Mike said with a smile. “He’s got more energy than me and you combined, no sense of the passing of time, no qualms about working after dark, and doesn’t seem to need to sleep. And he’ll tell you everything you ever wanted to know about a specific rock formation and a helluva lot more to boot.”

John grinned. “I found that out yesterday. He was good company on the way into town.”

They talked a few more minutes, and Mike promised to let John know as soon as he had any word on the posse that had set off after the rustlers. He collected his wife, and promised to return the next day.

A week went by before anyone had time to count the days. Mrs. Turner stayed on at the ranch, helping to care for her sister, and taking on Mrs. Hudson’s cooking and cleaning responsibilities as well. Mrs. Hudson recovered slowly, was as good of a patient as could be expected, especially given the amount of pain the gunshot wound gave her, and her dismay that her sister, who certainly did not need the additional income and had her own home to care for, was taking on her work duties. John had to lay the law down and forbid her from even thinking of leaving the bed. Her main solace was music, and it seemed to keep her mind off the pain, so John moved one of the parlour chairs into the sickroom so Sherlock could sit comfortably and play for her.

No one, it seemed, tired of hearing Sherlock play.

John had managed to keep Sherlock mostly in bed for three days. Three days of kips on the sofa and nights on the sick room floor while Sherlock stewed, feeling useless and out of sorts except when Mike came in with the maps. Sherlock’s maps - maps the posse was using to hone in on the rustlers. Mike made three more visits over that week, and on that last visit, after leaving the morning before with a new map from Sherlock rolled up under his arm, reported with a great deal of jubilation that Mrs. Hudson’s assailants were dead.

He rode into the yard, followed by his three boys, with such a great pounding of horse hoofs and whoops of delight that John ran outside to the porch and George and Hank hurried down from the stables.

“Dead?” John called out.

“Dead,” confirmed Mike. “Both of them - and a third who’d taken up with them.”

John didn’t ask Mike if he was sure they’d got the right men. Mike wouldn’t make that kind of mistake.

Mrs. Turner, who was nearly as practical and forthright as her sister, burst onto the porch with a new bottle of whiskey and a stack of glasses. 

“Thank you,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty, Mr. Watson….”

“Not at all,” he said.

By the time he was passing out celebratory shots all the way around, Sherlock, who’d been in Mrs. Hudson’s room playing for her, had hobbled out on his crutches.

John pressed a glass into his hand jubilantly, letting his fingers brush against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock took the glass and smiled at John.

“Dead, then?” he asked, holding up his glass and looking from John to Mike.

“Dead.” Mike held up his glass. “To Sherlock Holmes - whose deductive powers led us directly to their hidey hole this morning.”

They all drank, even Mrs. Turner, and the look John gave Sherlock was both admiring and relieved.

“My motivations were rather selfish,” Sherlock said to Mike and the others. “You may not know this, but John vowed we’d go after the rustlers ourselves if you didn’t catch them. And as I have a rather inconvenient broken leg that makes jumping off a horse both painful and awkward, and as he’s needed here to help make sure Mrs. Hudson is back on her feet soon, I did everything I could to help you out.” He raised his half-empty glass. “To John Watson, who saved our Mrs. Hudson. A good doctor, a good friend, a great man.”

John knew he was blushing as they drank again, blushing at Sherlock’s words of praise. He hoped he could pass it off on the alcohol. They downed their whiskey, then George and Hank rode off to tell the rest of the ranch hands, and Mrs. Turner hurried inside to tell Mrs. Hudson. Mike and the boys left as well, with a promise to be back in a few days to see how Mrs. Hudson was faring, and John and Sherlock settled onto the porch chairs.

“Disappointed you didn’t get to go after them yourself?” Sherlock asked. He’d let John arrange his leg on the low table, and was leaning back, looking at John, John in denims and shirt and boots, John who hadn’t donned his hat and chaps in days.

“A bit, to be honest,” John said, meeting Sherlock’s eyes. “But it’s done. And Mrs. Hudson’s doing better at last, and I can write to Billy’s parents again and let them know his murderer’s are dead.”

Sherlock nudged John’s leg with the bare toes of his good leg. “And when Mrs. Hudson is well enough to go home,” he said softly, “I can put on that corset for you and see where it takes us.”

John stared at Sherlock’s toes where they still brushed against his thigh. He glanced around the empty yard, looked in at the parlour through the porch window.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, voice rough with need. “I only had that week and a half with you before all this, but it seems like a lifetime ago.”

“It won’t be much longer. A week or two, perhaps?”

John pulled his gaze off Sherlock’s toes and raised it to meet his eyes.

“You make it sound like it’s just around the corner,” he said. He was already getting hard, just from the touch of Sherlock’s toes against the outside of his thigh, just from the sight of Sherlock’s feet, for God’s sake.

“It is,” murmured Sherlock. “Two weeks is no time when we have the rest of our lives.”

John’s eyes softened. Sherlock held his gaze for a long moment, and John gave the barest of nods.

“I think I can wait, then,” John said. He touched Sherlock’s knee, fingers lingering a second or two longer than a casual touch, and stood. “I’ll bring your book out after I see to Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock nodded, and John thought the country would never be big enough, or empty enough, for the kind of touches he’d like to give Sherlock. Here, on a sunny morning, with the breeze rustling the cottonwoods, and the snow gleaming on the mountaintops in the distance. A brush of hands, of lips, leaning in behind him, sitting on the stair below him resting in the vee of his legs.

In another lifetime, perhaps.

Until then, he’d learn to love the moonlight.


	11. No Mere Dalliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson is finally well enough to leave and Sherlock and John find they have a lot of catching up to do.

Chapter 11

The cast came off Sherlock’s leg on the day John finally judged Mrs. Hudson well enough to leave.

John took it off while Mrs. Turner was preparing lunch and Mrs. Hudson was propped up on pillows on the parlour sofa, drinking a hot cup of tea. He said very little as he worked, but when the cast was finally off, ran his hand over the pale flesh of Sherlock’s leg with purpose.

“Two hours,” he said as he manipulated Sherlock’s leg, bending and twisting it carefully to establish range of motion. “Give me two hours and I’m all yours.”

Mrs. Hudson’s recovery had been slow, set back by infection and anemia, and John wouldn’t allow her to travel until nearly a month after the shooting.

They’d had no privacy to speak of in the house since that horrible night. Mrs. Turner had taken up residence in the guest room, John slept on the sofa or on the mattress on the floor in the sickroom, and Sherlock slept alone on John’s bed. People came and went, John juggled care of his patients with oversight of the ranch, and the majority of the contact between Sherlock and John occurred when John was caring for Sherlock’s health. By the time the third week was upon them, John could hardly bear to touch Sherlock’s knee for fear of a traitorous, inconvenient erection.

So when the day came when Mrs. Hudson was finally well enough to travel back to her sister’s home to finish her convalescence, John was very nearly dead on his feet. Sherlock, still unsteady and supporting himself with one crutch, said his goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson inside. He kissed her on each cheek, then bid her a final fond adieu with a kiss to her forehead. She touched his cheek then embraced him, whispering something in his ear John could not hear. 

Sherlock watched out the window as John held Mrs. Hudson’s arm as she walked slowly out to the buggy. 

He held both her hands in his own as he spoke to her.

“No overdoing it - and I mean that sincerely. I’ll bring you right back here again if you lift anything heavier than a glass of water. Don’t bathe in a tub yet - another week or two since that infection could come back. Drink plenty of fluids, don’t do any housework or cooking. And no corset - nothing tight around the middle yet -”

“Mr. Watson - I know. I’ll be fine.” She pulled one of her hands away and lifted it to push the hair back from his eyes. “You’ve not been taking care of yourself - you need a haircut.”

She leaned in to kiss his cheek then.

“Thank you - for all you’ve done. For letting my sister stay. I know it was a huge imposition.”

He started to protest but she silenced him with an embrace. “It was. Don't diminish your sacrifice by saying it wasn’t. You’ll have your privacy now. You’ve a lot of catching up to do.”

His heart was very nearly in his throat as he kissed her cheek, then settled her in the buggy between George and Mrs. Turner, and stood there and waved as they drove away.

He made himself take his time walking back to the house.

The house was almost unnaturally quiet as he closed the door behind him. He bent to remove his boots, lining them up side by side, toes to the wall beside the door. He wiped hands suddenly sweaty on his denims, and took a steadying breath.

They were gone. Mrs. Turner was not in the kitchen rattling pots and pans getting ready for dinner. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t on the sofa, lying with her hands folded on her belly, listening with eyes closed as Sherlock played the violin. There were no medicines to prepare, no wounds to cleanse or drain. No instructions to give the boys about mending the north fence, no upcoming visit from Mike.

He took two steps into the parlour. 

“Sherlock?”

“Back here, John.”

John headed to his bedroom, slowly releasing the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

Sherlock was seated on the edge of John’s bed. 

John stopped in the doorway, staring not at Sherlock, but at the copper bathtub in the middle of the room.

“I asked Hank to bring it in while you were up at the stables this morning,” Sherlock said. “I’ve got a kettle on the fire and two more on the stove. Hank’s used the rain barrel to fill it instead of well water, so it’s not too terribly cold. It just needs warming up a bit.”

John hadn’t had a proper bath in weeks. He stared at the bath, then over it at Sherlock.

Sherlock had obviously had more opportunity to plan for this moment than John had.

“We have at least three hours before George returns. The boys have had lunch and won’t be back until dinner time. Mike had plans to take his wife and daughter into town today.” He lowered his voice. It floated seductively in the quiet air of the bedroom. “We are going to get naked, get clean, then I am going to teach you how to fuck me, Dr. Watson.”

John, eyes locked with Sherlock, lifted his hands to his collar and began unbuttoning his shirt. He took his time, his hands far steadier than they had any right being. He wanted his clothes off, wanted Sherlock naked as well.

“I’m a very good teacher, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock continued, shifting on the bed. He was wearing his dressing gown, belted around the middle and draped so that most of his thighs were exposed. “And I have an idea that you’ll be an excellent pupil.”

John’s shirt fell to the floor behind him. He reached for his belt buckle.

Sherlock gave him an easy smile.

“The kettles?” he reminded John. 

He unbelted the dressing gown, letting it fall back onto the bed, then stood and took a careful step toward the tub, grasping the edge to keep his balance on the still weak leg.

The water temperature was just above lukewarm when John finally sank into the tub, straddling Sherlock’s lap and falling onto him, holding his face between his hands, stroking his cheeks with his thumbs, then lowering his mouth to those beautiful lips. 

“I was beginning to think I’d never have this again, have you again,” he said, and Sherlock wrapped a hand around his neck and pulled him closer, pressing his lips against John’s, opening his mouth to John’s insistent tongue. Aggressive, claiming, possessive kisses faded to gentle presses of lips as they slid against each other, became reacquainted with the other. Sherlock worked his mouth along John’s jaw, his neck, his ear, and John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, buried his head in his neck and laughed with unbridled joy, all the tension of the past month bleeding from him until he found himself in tears.

And Sherlock held him until he was laughing again.

John washed Sherlock’s hair. Worked the soap into the loose curls, massaged his scalp with his fingers, poured clean water over his head until the curls hung limp and clean around Sherlock’s face.

Kissed him again then allowed Sherlock to wash his hair.

When they were clean he sat between Sherlock’s legs, back pressed to chest, knees drawn up, head resting in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock rocked gently in the water, pressing his prick, hard and needy, against John’s arse and back.

His hand touched John lightly as he spoke to him, fingertips running up the length of John’s prick, down again, running over his hips lightly under water, settling on his stomach, tracing the trail of hair from navel to prick.

“You’re a doctor, John. You are well acquainted with the male anatomy.” Sherlock’s hands moved over John’s hips again, then slid around his belly. “You’ll need to prepare me - to loosen me so I can take you in. I’ve oil here to help ease the way. One finger first, then two once I can easily take the first. Three after that.” He trailed fingers up John’s chest, circled a nipple, grazed over it with the pad of his finger.

John arched his back and groaned. He bit his bottom lip and rocked back against Sherlock.

Sherlock squeezed the nipple between two fingers, humming in John’s ear.

“But three fingers won’t be enough. Your prick is bigger than three of your fingers.” Sherlock’s other hand closed suddenly around John’s prick and squeezed. John moaned as waves of pleasure shot through him, and Sherlock rubbed his chin into John’s shoulder, moving it back and forth against his skin as he maintained his hold on him. “After four, you may replace those lovely fingers with this even lovelier prick.”

“I won’t last,” John breathed out, turning his head to kiss Sherlock. “It’s been so long - ”

“Ah - Dr. Watson - you will be so intent on finding my prostate with that prick of yours, so intent on making me turn to butter in your arms, that you won’t think of spilling before I do.”

Sherlock was not a quiet lover.

He knelt on the bed, arse in the air and face turned on a pillow, and John knelt behind him, ghosted calloused fingers over pale flesh, leaned in to press a kiss to the little hollow at the top of his crease. He knew only what Sherlock had told him, only what his medical training had taught him, and neither told him to worship the body before him, to nip gently at the perfect arse cheeks, to cup the heavy weight of bollocks in one hand as the other skimmed over Sherlock’s back, trailed down the shadowed crease.

Sherlock reached back and grabbed John’s wrist.

“Do it,” he said. He clenched his buttocks, dipped his hips invitingly, imploringly.

The first finger, oil coated, slipped in easily, enveloped in the tight heat of Sherlock, who groaned his approval and pushed back against John’s hand as John worked the finger out then in again, pressing in as far as he could, sliding out, then in again, and again. 

He was hard from the foreplay in the bath, harder still now from the way Sherlock greedily took the finger, groaned, asked for more. 

The second finger, pressed tightly against the first, pushing in slowly, twisting, pressing in again, twisting out. Scissoring at Sherlock’s mangled instruction as he rutted back against John’s hand. Crooking just as Sherlock demanded, finding the prostate, the node of pleasure, dusting over it at first, then hitting it squarely.

Sherlock cried out, bit into his arm to muffle the sound.

“Another finger John. Fuck - fuck - _fuck_.” Rocking back against John’s hand, fucking himself deliberately, greedy, wanting to be taken. John slid the third finger in with the first two, watching his fingers, his common, ordinary fingers, slip inside Sherlock’s arse, stretch him, press in again as Sherlock pushed back against them greedily, keening when they touched his prostate, prick hard and dripping and mouth uttering the most brilliant words, the most obscene phrases, words of love and longing, sentiment bubbling to the surface with every press of fingers, releasing weeks of pent up need.

And when John had four fingers in, four fingers cupped together, four impossible fingers stretching Sherlock’s arse, Sherlock demanded his prick.

“Oil it well, like your fingers. Then let your body take over. Let it do what it wants - what it needs, John.” He twitched as John removed his fingers and oiled his prick with shaking hands, then pressed into Sherlock, fingers biting into the skin on Sherlock’s hips until he was fully seated.

There were stars in his eyes, a hundred blazing suns burning the back of his eyelids. His prick was on fire, his bollocks holding all the coiled tension of his body. He pulled out, then snapped his hips to press back in again, then with a strangled groan bent over Sherlock’s body, wrapped his hand around his lover’s chest, and let his instinct take over as he pulled Sherlock up and against him, rocking into him, twisting, pressing in to graze his prostate.

He bit into his neck, a claiming mark, and moved his hand to Sherlock’s cock, grasping it, stroking it, pumping it in time with his thrusts.

Sex could not be this good. Had never been _anything_ like this. Never before had the body beneath him hummed with desire, pushed up to seek _more_ of him, met each of his thrusts with tight resistance and bone-bleeding need. No matter that he was thrusting inside Sherlock - _Sherlock_ had the reins, Sherlock was leading this dance.

John was too dazed to do anything but follow.

When Sherlock’s prick convulsed in his hand, he let himself go.

He rose on waves of pleasure, spirals of joy, blessed, blessed relief as he pulsed his release into Sherlock’s body, collapsing with him, spooning against his back, pressing kisses into his neck. Vowing to love him, to love him forever.

Sherlock turning in his arms, looking sated, holding John’s face between his hands.

Kissing his mouth. 

Kissing his eyes.

Vowing to love John. To love him forever.

ooOoo

It was two weeks before Sherlock had enough strength back in his leg to ride his horse.

Mike brought Penny back to John’s place, and John had George saddle her, and Juliet as well, and stood between them as Sherlock walked up from the house to join him for a ride.

Sherlock, in denims, and boots, wearing his new hat, a blue kerchief tied around his neck.

He raised an eyebrow as John tossed him his chaps.

John waited until Sherlock was in the saddle, noting how he fit as naturally in it as he fit spooned up against John’s back, then swung himself up onto his own horse. George tossed him the reins, and he pulled Juliet around and set off south toward Mike’s place, Sherlock beside him. 

Sherlock rode as well as he did everything else. Like he was born in a saddle, born to ride.

There were days when they rode together, Sherlock helping John with the work the ranch required, checking fences, moving cattle, separating them for sale. There were days when John rode alone, and days when Sherlock didn’t leave the house, elbows deep in one experiment or another. There were exuberant days, when John and Sherlock rode for the sheer joy of riding, cantering across the fields, dust billowing behind them.

There was a day when Sherlock took John in nothing but his chaps as he had once promised, pressed up against a cottonwood tree while the horses grazed behind them. When John groaned out Sherlock’s name with his cheek against the rough bark of the tree, with his arse caressed by Sherlock’s long, elegant fingers, his cries muffled by the kerchief in his mouth. 

There were long summer evenings, rose-coloured sunsets, skies of pink and blue and fading gold, bats catching mosquitoes as the light faded, Sherlock and John stretched out on the porch chairs. Faces in silhouette, greys and blues of shadow-soaked twilight, Sherlock serenading the silence with a melancholy melody, John just beside him, bristling with the need to touch, daring nothing but a soft brush of fingers on bare forearm.

There were summer nights dancing with the crackle of lightning, thrumming with the roar of thunder, shimmering with the dance of rain on the roof, the wind bending the cottonwoods.

There were nights in each other’s arms, nights of riotous love-making, exhausted sleep, spooning and cuddling, and nights so warm they could only toss and turn in sweat-soaked sheets.

A night when John walked in from checking on an ailing mare to find Sherlock on his bed, lacing up the corset.

He took him that night face to face, and every kiss of his stubbled face, every press of his insistent erection, assured him that he’d never miss the feel of a woman’s body beneath his own.

A day when Mike Stamford brought a letter for Sherlock, a letter from home, that Sherlock tore up into a hundred pieces and let scatter in the wind.

“Things have calmed down at home,” he told John as the cream-coloured fragments fell like confetti on the soil. “I am instructed to return. They have found a suitable woman for me - one who is willing to have me despite my proclivities. One who is willing to look the other way, allowing me my _dalliances_.”

John looked out at the bits of letter already lifted by the wind, tumbling over the grass.

“Dalliance.” Sherlock spoke, low, sad, from behind John, one hand on the front door. “Promise me I am much more than a dalliance to you, John.”

“My entire life before you was a dalliance,” John said, still watching the wind sweep the paper fragments away. “I measure my life now from the day they brought you in my kitchen and you made me wash my hands twice before I touched you.”

Sherlock took a step closer to John. “People are scorned for this, John. Imprisoned. Vilified. It will never be easy.”

“If I wanted easy, I’d have married Mike’s daughter.”

“And I’d have married Lady Sarah Covington.”

John turned. 

“ _Lady_ Sarah Covington?”

“Earl Covington’s daughter. Please try not to look so impressed, John. She’s minor royalty at best. She’s had a few scandals of her own, one involving a lady dominatrix with whom I was once briefly acquainted.”

“You were acquainted with a lady dominatrix?” John looked from Sherlock to the yard where the letter fragments had now all disappeared. He swallowed. “Really?”

Sherlock regarded John with interest.

“You are far more interested in this then I would expect you to be, Dr. Watson.”

“I’m interested in everything about you,” John said. 

“Especially this.”

Sherlock smiled smugly.

“So you’re not writing back to your family?” asked John, changing the subject, knowing he was blushing.

Sherlock shook his head.

“Not immediately. I’ll write when we return to San Francisco in October.”

John looked up with a sly smile.

“Do you happen to know any lady dominatrixes there?”

Sherlock laughed. He opened the door and stepped back inside.

“I know all sorts of people in San Francisco,” he said, “and I’d be happy to introduce you around.”

“Good,” John replied, grinning. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“I think you’ll like it there.” Sherlock eyed John speculatively. “A great deal, actually. A _very_ great deal.”

_TBC_


	12. Aunt Grace and Uncle Hugo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John winter in San Francisco and summer in Wyoming and find they like both places just fine. But there's another place Sherlock loves, and he'd love John to love it too.

Chapter 12

John had never thought himself much of a writer, but a writer he became.

He started with letters to Mike and Mrs. Hudson, and soon progressed to writing up the unbelievable cases Sherlock took on - and resolved - once they’d settled into his San Francisco home for the winter.

_Dear Mike:_

_We’ve made it to San Francisco, and I’m pleased to report that Sherlock does indeed have a home here. Small is hardly the word for it, however. It’s a lovely place, three stories tall and narrow, but well-appointed and maintained. There’s plenty of room for both of us, and for the housekeeper and manservant Sherlock has in his employ. Odd he didn’t mention either to me earlier – obviously trying to keep us from knowing how genteel he really is. Of course, all the homes here are practically on top of each other, side by side on the steep hills that make up this city, and after the time I spent in Wyoming, I admit to feeling a bit claustrophobic. I miss the smell of clean air, the wind on my face as I ride, and the glorious mountains rising in the distance._

_But the city holds a special place for me now as well. The sea is but a heartbeat away, and great boats harbour here, and in the evening, the sunset over the water is a balm for tired eyes. The city is crowded, full of people from all over the world, and the sights and sounds and smells and tastes are a daily adventure for this simple doctor-turned-rancher._

_You may not have known that Sherlock Holmes had gained a certain fame here before he left to venture west. He is known as a consulting detective - he is called in by the police detectives when they have a crime that defies resolution. We had only six hours to rest once our train arrived before they knew, through methods I cannot explain, that Sherlock Holmes was back in the city._

_In the weeks since our arrival, he has been called by the police on three separate occasions, and a string of prospective clients have begun to appear at our door. He finds most cases dull, but takes on those that intrigue him. Fortunately, doctors are not so scarce here as they are in Wyoming, and the only medical care I offer is to Sherlock himself, and of course to his staff._

_And this is fine - I had a good bit too much doctoring to do those last months in Wyoming._

_Sherlock has introduced me to his tailor, and I’ve had a few things made that help me blend in more in this city. My hat and boots and denims are safely stored for our return in the spring._

_Mike, the man is as brilliant here as he proved to be at home. He has invited me to assist on several of his cases, all of which he has solved successfully. I’ve decided to try my hand at writing them up, and at the very least sharing them with you and Mrs. Hudson and the others, for your entertainment._

_You have my eternal appreciation for helping keep things in order at the ranch in my absence. Please do keep an eye on Mrs. Hudson in particular, and make sure her every need is met and that she is not exerting herself too much in the care of the house and the boys._

_Post can, of course, reach me here at Sherlock’s address, and I look forward to hearing from you when you have the opportunity to write._

_Cordially, I remain your friend,_

_John Watson_

“You’ve hardly covered it all,” said Sherlock, leaning down over John’s shoulder. He was wearing his dressing gown still as he was wont to do on days when they lingered at home. “It’s not quite true that you’re only doctoring myself and the staff.”

“Ah.” John looked at the letter. “So you don’t consider your hobo network and Madam Angeline’s girls your staff, then?”

“I do appreciate you offering them your care,” Sherlock said. He looked over the letter again. “And you didn’t tell Mike about being knocked unconscious by the jealous husband, nor about spending the night in a jail cell when Officer Donovan mistook you for a burglar because you were running through the alleys.”

“Chasing you! You and your long legs. I can’t believe you let him haul me off.”

“I was a block away when that happened and came after you as soon as I realized you weren’t catching up. I didn’t think to check the city jail.”

John shook his head fondly. After that first escapade, Sherlock had made much more of an effort to keep John close. That generally involved holding on to his sleeve as he ran, forcing John to keep pace, but it was effective nonetheless.

He folded the letter and tucked it inside an envelope, then addressed it and set it aside.

“Three weeks, Sherlock. Twenty-one days and nights here and I’ve already had ten stitches in my head, a stake-out at a brothel, a sprained wrist and a night in jail.”

Sherlock smiled. “I apologize for the slow start. Things will certainly pick up once word gets out of my return.”

“You do realize that was my first experience with a brothel, don’t you?”

“I gathered - you were a bit out of your league.” He squeezed John’s hand. “You had no idea what to call Angeline.”

John laughed. “Perhaps - but hiding behind the dressing screen on my very first case with you? While Miss Candice and our client’s husband engaged in -”

“I do remember, John,” Sherlock interrupted, rolling his eyes.

He walked over and sat on the edge of John’s bed. It was John’s bed only in the sense that it was in the room formally appointed as John’s. He hadn’t yet spent an entire night here.

“Life here with me is not what you expected, is it?” Sherlock asked.

John raised an eyebrow. “You may have failed to mention that you’re famous here, and that you’d have clients beating down the doors requesting your services. Or that you rarely sleep, and have an entire floor of the house devoted to the experiments that took up only a large table at my home.”

Sherlock lifted a shoulder. He looked fondly at John.

“It wasn’t really much of a life without you.”

John laughed. “You’re on a first-name basis with the mayor of San Francisco, Sherlock. You have the madams at no less than three brothels wrapped around your finger, ready to give you information on any client who’s frequented the establishment ever. The San Francisco police call you to help solve cases they can’t resolve. The owners of the three restaurants closest to this house never charge you for meals. Hobos - _hobos_ look up to you as if you’re God almighty. You can step on any cable car and step off without offering a fare. The two people in your employ here pretend that we are nothing but friends and associates, despite the fact that my sheets are never dirty, no matter how much I rumple them up every morning. Honestly, Sherlock, I think you had quite a life before we came back here together.”

Sherlock lay back on the bed. “You’re wrong. It was only half a life. Dull. Boring.”

“Half a life? It was easily twice the life I had - four times the life. _Ten_ times the life.”

He sat on the bed beside Sherlock, then reclined to lie beside him. Sherlock gave him almost no time before he shifted then rolled atop John, straddling him and looking at him rather seriously.

“How can you even compare my paltry existence here to the land you own, the space, the rocks and trees and grass and sand and water? The free spirits who live out their days on the back of a horse, who may see only a handful of other human beings each day, and sometimes none at all? To be on a road that owns that title only because it connects two places together, and not pass another for the entirety of your journey?”

John circled Sherlock’s neck with his arms and drew him downward into a kiss. 

“This bed is exquisite,” he said at last, when he’d pulled away from the equally exquisite mouth. “If you’re going to insist we return to Wyoming, we need to buy new beds.”

Sherlock chuckled. “If _I_ insist? I own no property there. I haven’t left home and ranch and cattle and sheep and chickens in care of a rowdy bunch of cowboys and a widow with a rather spicy past.”

“You crave solitude as much as I crave adventure,” John said, voicing the thought he had come to understand these past weeks. “I think we make a good pair. We each have at hand what the other craves, and we each seek to escape the very life we’ve created for ourself.”

“You remember the war,” Sherlock said, dropping his head to rest his cheek over John’s wounded shoulder, his relic from the Afghan War. “You miss it. Being on edge. Never knowing where or when the next attack will come. The adrenaline rush. The action. Putting wounded men back together. That’s one reason you like going on cases with me. We never know what we’ll find around the next corner. It’s both dangerous and unpredictable.”

John’s hand traced over Sherlock’s shoulders, his fingers carded through the curls on Sherlock’s neck. 

“I’m still putting wounded men back together,” he reminded Sherlock, though he didn’t deny anything Sherlock had said. It _was_ true. Running through the streets here well after nightfall, with only the street lamps to give them vague, shadowy guidance, ducking into dark doorways, chasing behind Sherlock as he hurried through the streets, feeling his way flawlessly through the urban maze. All of it, then falling into bed with Sherlock when they returned, made him feel alive. 

He traced Sherlock’s lips with a finger. “And you remember a quiet sort of life, which you most certainly never had in London, and probably not at that country manor where you spent your summers on horseback,” he said, quietly. “A holiday, perhaps? Or perhaps a place you only knew in a book?”

Sherlock pushed himself up on his arms and stared at John. “I haven’t told you about the South Downs, have I?”

John shook his head. “Tell me now, then.”

Sherlock rolled to the side, dropping down to a comfortable position beside John on the bed. “My mother’s oldest sister, my Aunt Grace, lived there with her husband. She was a poet - a true Bohemian. Her family had no idea what to do with her. Fortunately she met a kindred soul, my Uncle Hugo, who had the means to provide her what she needed and allow her to continue her creative pursuits. Uncle Hugo farmed, raised sheep, and Aunt Grace kept bees. She never had children, and there was a time, when I was sixteen, when they sent me off to live there. I was already beginning to show my colours - such was the euphemism they used - and they thought a bit of country air and isolation might help turn me around.”

“From what were they isolating you? Other boys?”

Sherlock laughed, but the laugh was bitter. “I told them nothing. I wasn’t ogling the stable boys, or making advances - covert or otherwise - to the boys at school. But it had become clear that I had no interest in the fairer sex whatsoever, and worse, an associate of my older brother who had come to dinner at our home while I was there on term break, took an interest in me.” He nearly spat out those final words. Clearly, the attraction was not mutual.

“And that was your fault?” John took Sherlock’s hand in his own. He felt wounded. Wounded for Sherlock. Guilty for having had a safe and secure childhood. His own - colours - hadn’t become obvious until he was on his own, surrounded by only men in an explosive atmosphere. It had been easy to convince himself later that he would never have been drawn to Ben if it hadn’t been for the war. Easy to do an about face when he met Mary.

Easy to call her his salvation, for a reason she never really understood.

He thought of that now, Mary as his salvation. She had given him stability, a sense of normalcy, and ultimately, the seed of adventure - to take off to America. To Wyoming.

To Sherlock.

“This particular - gentleman,” Sherlock continued, though it was clear from his tone that the man was no gentleman at all, “informed my brother, after one meal shared at our family table, that I would never live up to the Holmes name, carry on the line.” Sherlock’s voice became bitter. “He offered to take me off their hands. To train me for intelligence work in Her Majesty’s service, and to take full responsibility for me.”

John’s stomach was knotted. He felt like he’d taken a fist to his gut. “You were sixteen,” he said. 

“But as Mycroft said, girls of sixteen met similar fates, taken under the wing, or so they said, of men twice or thrice their age.”

“What happened after that?” John asked, turning on his side to meld himself against Sherlock. 

“Mycroft had a conversation with my father. My mother was kept out of the affair at the time. My father made the decision to send me to my aunt’s for two years. They had the idea that the country air and isolation, the honest labour of farm work, would clear my troubled head and body of its deviant nature. They deduced I was subconsciously projecting my nature to strangers.”

“But you must have liked it - you remember the Downs fondly.” John propped himself on one elbow and smoothed Sherlock’s hair back from his face.

“Those were the happiest years of my life - until Mike hauled me into your house and I met the Wyoming cattle rancher who could set bones and suture wounds with the skill of a London surgeon.”

John grinned. He held Sherlock’s eyes for a long moment.

“Tell me about those years, then. What was your Aunt Grace like?”

“Aunt Grace was what my mother might have been had she not married my father. Smart - well, my mother is as well - her association with my father has sharpened rather than dulled that particular trait.” He entwined his fingers with John’s and laid their joined hands atop his stomach. “She’d wander the downs, with her sketchbook and pencils. Days were fluid with her. She might appear for lunch or tea, but then again, she might not. When she wasn’t drawing and writing, she was reading. She had a magnificent library, eclectic, and gave me full access to it. She had few rules for me - the most important one being that I was not to neglect my education, and the next that I was responsible for my own education. Left to my own devices, I learned more in the two years I spent there than I did in all the years before.”

“She didn’t stress the importance of sleep, did she?” John asked, beginning to understand.

Sherlock grinned. “Uncle Hugo had the farm to look after, and he had to be up early in the morning and to bed early enough to guarantee that he’d be up again at dawn. Aunt Grace and I, however, slept when we were tired. Truly, John, the circadian rhythm is not for everyone.”

“I’m going to miss a good bit of your waking life because I’ll be asleep.”

“I like watching you sleep.”

John leaned in and kissed Sherlock again. He never did so without marveling at the circumstances that had brought him here, to this place, to his moment, the sequence of choices, of decisions, of chance and coincidence.

Sherlock Holmes didn’t believe in coincidence, and John was beginning to doubt it as well.

“Your aunt?” he reminded Sherlock.

“Ah. My aunt. There was one piece of my education she would not leave to chance. She was passionate about bees and she taught me everything she knew.”

“Bees?”

“She made the most delicious honey, the best I’ve ever had. Well - she didn’t make it, naturally, the bees did. But she understood them, and provided for them. She took me inside their society, John, and helped me understand what it means to be a queen, or a worker, a guard, or a forager. And when it was time, I helped her collect the honey. I can’t smell honey, or taste it, all these years later, without thinking of Aunt Grace.”

“Is she still alive?” John asked. “Did you keep up with her after you left?”

“She died a few months before I came here,” Sherlock said. “I saw her only rarely after my stay there, though I corresponded with her by letter.”

“Did she know why you’d been sent to her?” John asked.

“Only when I told her.”

“Oh?” John said. “And what was her reaction? I take it she didn’t disown you or send you back to London.”

“She looked at me very gravely, then she asked me if it were true - if I really did prefer boys to girls. And I told her that I didn’t fancy anyone at all. But she wouldn’t let it go - she wasn’t embarrassed about it - not for me, and not on her part either. She asked me who I thought of when I dreamt, when I woke up after one of _those_ kind of dreams.”

John squeezed his hand in sympathy, imagining the sixteen-year old Sherlock confronted with this question. John would have been amazed that his aunt - or mother - or any woman - knew to ask such a question.

“She looked at me so earnestly, like she was seeing right through me. And I answered as honestly as I was able - I never saw faces, or heard voices, but the hands - well, the hands I saw were not my own, but they weren’t a woman’s either.”

“What did she say?”

“She smiled at me, and she touched my face with her fingertips, and she told me it was time I had a talk with Uncle Hugo.”

John could tell by Sherlock’s voice that Sherlock had been as fond of his Uncle Hugo as he had been of his Aunt Grace.

“And?”

“She brought in tea, and before too long Uncle Hugo came in and joined us. And we talked about the soil on their farm - it’s chalky there, of course, but there are so many variations - and we discussed what fruit trees would be flowering next, and which the bees might like best. And then Aunt Grace kissed Uncle Hugo on the head and said “He’s all yours now, Hugo.” He stopped, staring at the ceiling, a distant smile on his face.

“You know you can’t stop here,” John said after a long silence.

Sherlock turned his head and stared at John. “Uncle Hugo is still alive,” he said. “He was devastated at losing Aunt Grace. He lives on the farm, still, as far as I know.”

“Sherlock?”

He smiled again, and continued, still staring at the ceiling. “Uncle Hugo was born a woman.” He glanced at John, who was staring at him wide-eyed. “She left home at the age of eighteen and disappeared into London and never looked back. She began living as a man immediately. My aunt fell in love with him and he with her - before she knew he was a woman. She married him anyway, and moved to a place where they could have the privacy they needed to live life as a married couple.”

“Unbelievable,” said John. He sat up, sitting cross-legged on the bed beside Sherlock. “You had no idea?”

“It had never occurred to me - not once - that someone might want to assume another gender. After he told me, I noticed only the lack of Adam’s apple, and skin weathered by the sun but with no hint of beard. It was impossible for me to see Uncle Hugo as anything but the man I’d known, my aunt’s spouse. I later learned that they had trusted this secret with no one - only me.”

John was quiet beside Sherlock, studying his face as Sherlock grew pensive.

“Uncle Hugo didn’t explain to me that he felt like he was a man born in a woman’s body. He didn’t explain or justify what he and Aunt Grace had done, or why, or how. He simply said that I should always start as I meant to continue, and that there was no way to be true to myself and make my family happy at the same time. 

“You’ll have to choose, son. And I cannot tell you which choice is right, only that either path will be exceedingly difficult, and that the world is a very large place.”

“He sounds wise,” John said. 

“He is,” answered Sherlock.

“You have no problem calling him ‘him,’” John mused.

“I never saw him as anything but a man,” Sherlock answered. “I missed them terribly when my parents called me back to London. I didn’t want to leave - at all - despite having been virtually isolated for two years. I went to university, and got into all sorts of trouble, and didn’t heed my uncle’s advice until I was sent away here.”

“Do you miss your parents?” John asked. “They’ve asked you to come back - I’m sure you haven’t forgotten.”

Sherlock shook his head. “When I started living life as my uncle advised me - I did so with the full knowledge that being true to myself would not fit within their parameters of what is acceptable. They’ll accept nothing less than having me married and producing heirs.” He looked at John. “It’s only ever going to be just me and you, John. I hope I’m enough family for you.”

John smiled. “You’re enough everything for me,” he said.

ooOoo

They established a pattern, winters and springs in San Francisco, summers and falls in Wyoming.

They were always ready to pack up and leave California at the end of March, always anxious for the western sunsets, the wind in the cottonwoods, the feel of a cantering horse beneath them. They craved the taste of Mrs. Hudson’s cooking, the sweet well water, the melancholic notes of Sherlock’s violin hanging on the quiet air of twilight.

And they were always ready to return to San Francisco, to set up shop in the tall and narrow house, to greet clients and lose themselves in the growing throngs of people. To smell the salty air off the bay, and wear well tailored clothing, and ride cable cars instead of horses, until it became too much again, and they returned to the ranch.

And always John wrote. There was a storyteller inside him he hadn’t recognized before, and a poet, and he wrote up their most interesting cases and sent them to Mrs. Hudson and to Mike and the boys while they were in San Francisco, and some of them were published from time to time in the paper. 

And on the ranch, in the evenings when the stars punched brilliant holes in the black veil of sky, with a lamp on the porch, sitting in the vee of Sherlock’s legs, he put words to Sherlock’s music, love songs and cowboy songs and laments for lost friends. An ode to Mrs. Hudson’s blackberry pie. A romantic piece about a fair maid’s eyes that they both knew was all about Sherlock. A fun little ditty they called “Mycroft Go Home” which they were saving for the unlikely possibility of Mycroft appearing at their door.  


He never did, but they sang the song anyway.

ooOoo

There is a certain resemblance between London and San Francisco, between the South Downs and the uplands of western Wyoming.

The similarities are as subtle as the differences are extreme. 

Twenty years after Sherlock Holmes and John Watson began their life together on a ranch in Wyoming, they travel together by train to New Orleans, then by boat to England. They are moving back home to England, to a small farm on the South Downs, to a place Sherlock knows and remembers, still, after nearly forty years.

They meet Mycroft Holmes in Sussex. He has handled the estate for them efficiently and professionally, and hands to Sherlock the keys to Uncle Hugo’s home, the deed proclaiming that Sherlock Holmes is now the owner of the property.

Uncle Hugo died three months ago, and the family knows now what Sherlock has always known, but has managed to keep the news from the papers. 

Mycroft has shaken John’s hand. He knows all about Dr. John Watson, and his military service, and his injury, and his dead wife and child. 

He knows nothing about John and Sherlock, but he knows his own proclivities, and he is a different man now than he was when he advocated having Sherlock sent away. 

Mycroft and Sherlock’s parents are gone now.

Sherlock is cordial to Mycroft but not friendly. John regards him with unveiled interest. Sherlock has assured him that his brother is nothing like him at all. John can see the family resemblance, but thinks he agrees with Sherlock.

Mycroft watches John and Sherlock. He watched them walk into the solicitor’s office together and watches them communicate as Sherlock reviews the paperwork. It is ridiculously obvious to him what they are. More than friends. More than business partners. They communicate silently, efficiently. They do not touch - they have learned to be careful in public - but their proximity to the other is just a tad too close. They walk and move and sit and speak as two people who have shared the same space for many years.

Mycroft is envious. 

He is intrigued by their voices. Sherlock’s crisp English is watered down now with a soft drawl, with words that sound odd to his ear. He moves differently as well - as if he’s no longer in a hurry all the time, as if he’s checking the space around him for John even when John is not in the same room.

He is the same Sherlock, but unaccountably, irreversibly different.

This is evidenced in many ways, but grandly in the invitation Sherlock extends to him to come see the place with them - to stay the night with them instead of at the hotel in town.

He accepts, and wonders why he does so. He’s had the house cleaned and modernized and stocked, made ready for its new inhabitants. He knows they’ve sold the house in San Francisco, the one they’ve lived in since the earthquake and fire. John has kept the ranch, though it’s leased out now. It’s their failsafe, their lifeline, in case they find life back home not to their liking.

Sherlock is quiet as he unlocks the door to the house. He moves through the rooms slowly, seeming to forget John, but John takes it upon himself to make tea.

They drink it on the porch as Sherlock goes off to explore the grounds. John sees him approaching the long row of beehives, and smiles wistfully.

“How did you meet my brother?” Mycroft asks. He is standing beside John at the porch railing, watching Sherlock poke around.

John turns to Mycroft curiously. “You don’t know, do you?”

_I know everything there is to know about you before you left for the States. I know your military record, your parents’ names, your wife’s name, how she died, where she’s buried beside your infant daughter. But once you left this country, I know nothing._

“No, I don’t,” admits Mycroft.

“Mike Stamford, a local rancher, hired Sherlock to help break up a cattle rustling ring. Sherlock had him out one night and his horse tipped him over onto a barbed wire fence. He tore up his leg and broke his ankle. They brought him to me. I had them lay him out on my kitchen table. He made me scrub it twice before he’d get on it.”

“He can be...difficult,” says Mycroft, still watching Sherlock.

“Tell me about it,” says John.

“Does he still play?” asks Mycroft. Sherlock has prised off the top of one of the hives and is looking inside.

“Violin? Yes. He’s quite good.”

“I know. I mean - he always was.”

“He asked for horses and tack - have you been able to arrange that yet?” John is looking out past Sherlock toward a barn.

“They’ll be here tomorrow. They’re bringing four. You can try them out and choose the two you’d like to keep.”

“You’re being incredibly accommodating, Mycroft.” John has turned to him and is studying him curiously. “You’re not at all what I expected.”

“I’ve certainly allowed that Sherlock could have changed over the past twenty years. Surely he could extend me the same courtesy.”

“It’s Sherlock, Mycroft.”

They exchange an amused look.

“The doctor in town is looking for some help,” Mycroft says as they give up looking at Sherlock and wander back inside.

“What makes you think I’m looking for employment?” asks John. 

“He’ll make you crazy with those bees. You’ll need a distraction.”

“I’ll have Sherlock. I imagine I’ll be spending a good amount of time removing stingers.”

Their eyes meet again, 

Mycroft shakes his head.

“Quite.”

ooOoo

They sit on the porch under the black veil of a sky pierced with bursts of starlight. Sherlock has his violin, and John has his writing paper. There’s an electric light mounted on the porch wall, but it’s turned off, and John writes by candlelight. Sherlock is playing something soft and subtle and lovely, over and over, and John is writing out the words his heart is dictating.

Inside, in a bedroom whose window opens to the porch, Mycroft Holmes is lying in bed, awake.

He has never been lonelier in his life.

There’s a breeze in the air, and it rustles the leaves of the beeches, and accompanies the violin with its lonely voice.

John slips into the vee of Sherlock’s legs as Sherlock places the violin on the table. His arms encircle John, and they tilt their heads up to see the stars.

The air is sweet, the wind rustles the leaves, and John takes Sherlock’s face in his hands and kisses him, beginning here as he means to go on.

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap. Thanks for coming on this journey with me. I appreciate all the wonderful comments and am grateful to each of you who took time to read, to leave kudos and/or to comment. Thank you so much!

**Author's Note:**

> We like to breathe unbranded air,  
> Be free of foot and mind,  
> And go or stay, or sing or swear,  
> Whichever we're inclined.  
> An appetite, a conscience clear,  
> A pipe that's rich and old  
> Are loves that always bless and cheer  
> And never cry or scold


End file.
